


You Came To Me Bleeding (Or: How To Tame Your Batman)

by Ryxl



Series: How To Tame Your Batman [1]
Category: Batman: The Animated Series, DC Animated Universe, Superman: The Animated Series
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Bruce has more issues than a lifetime subscription, Clark actually has a spine, Hurt/Comfort, Lois is nobody's fool, Lois ships it like whoah, Other, Pale Porn, Surprisingly Fluffy, Trust Issues, shuffled timeline, the Kents raised their boy right, who let me write this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started out as a SuperBat hurt/comfort thing because I couldn't find any and I wanted to read some and SOMEONE refused to talk me out of writing it. Originally, I thought it was going to end up slashy but then Lois happened and threesomes became a possibility. I have now uploaded the last chapter before I lost control of where I thought it was going to go, and it's a good stopping point, so I'm calling  it complete and posting the rest of it as another story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first time was a surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties have been taken with the timeline, because people don't realize how OLD Bruce Wayne is. According to events in the first season of B:TAS, Bruce Wayne is somewhere between a minimum of about 26 and a maximum of about 38, but Mask of the Phantasm takes place ten years after he put on the cowl and I doubt he was any younger than 18 when he did that. First season of S:TAS takes place during or after 3rd season of B:TAS, and the entirety of JL/JLU happens after S:TAS. Even without knowing exact dates, he's got to be somewhere past 40 by the time JL/JLU starts. So I just...shuffled events around to make the first seasons of S:TAS and JL/JLU more concurrent with the first season of B:TAS. Also, there doesn't seem to be a Robin in this timeline. Whoops?

The first time was a surprise.

Clark had detected a heartbeat in his apartment where there should have been none almost as soon as his feet had come to rest on the balcony outside his living room, and fear – not so unfamiliar to him as people might think – had shot through him. A glance through the walls simultaneously put his fear to rest and woke new ones.

Batman was in his kitchen.

How had he gotten in? He was Batman, that’s how. Why was he there? That was a question not so easily answered on his own. Clark stepped inside his apartment, closing the balcony door behind him and drawing the curtains just in case. His cape, he left on the couch. That was the extent of undressing he bothered with before striding confidently into the kitchen and turning on the light. He had no doubts that Batman knew he was there, no fear of startling him. He even knew what he would see: the Dark Knight lurking in the corner with his cloak drawn around him like a living shadow, incongruous against pristine white tile. Sure enough, when the fluorescent lights flickered on, that’s exactly what greeted his eyes.

“Why…?” He didn’t bother actually finishing the question.

“I need your help,” Batman said shortly.

Alarm bells and red flags filled Clark’s mind. Batman needed his help? Needed it badly enough to wait in his kitch- wait, that didn’t make sense. If he needed Superman’s help so badly, he could have gotten in touch much faster. Whatever it was Batman needed help with, it was something he didn’t want anyone else to know about.

“What’s wrong?” Clark demanded, unconsciously widening his stance and holding his arms out as though bracing against a charge.

In response, Batman parted the dark waterfall of his cape, revealing bloody bandages around his abdomen and fingers of blackish-red that glistened wetly as they trailed from beneath the cloth to vanish into the tops of his boots.

The oath that left Clark’s lips would have earned him a mouthful of soap as a child. “You don’t need my help,” he protested, “you need a hospital.”

Behind his mask, Batman’s eyes narrowed. “No hospitals. No doctors. I can take care of this, _but I need your help_.”

He sounded ready to bite Clark’s head off. More so than usual, at least, and he found himself crossing his arms belligerently. “Don’t tell me you want me to cauterize the wounds.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Batman spat. “I have a medical gel that will accelerate healing by a factor of…” Irritably, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The gel will have the wounds closed within twelve hours, and the tissue damage completely repaired within thirty-two.”

“That sort of healing is going to put an incredible strain on your body,” Clark protested.

One hand emerged from beneath the cloak holding what looked like a two-liter bag of unappetizing gray paste with a nozzle on one end. “Glucose and protein.”

He’d thought of that. He should have known; this was Batman, after all. “Then what do you need my help for?”

“It’s going to hurt.” Batman’s eyes narrowed again. “It’s going to hurt a _lot_. Screaming in the Batcave wouldn’t be an issue, but Alfred’s not strong enough to hold me down _or_ get the straps tight enough. Gagging me to muffle the sound isn’t going to be a problem; my cape will suffice.”

A sick feeling had curled up in Clark’s belly. “You want me to gag you with your cape and hold you down while you scream in pain for – how long?”

“Probably four hours. Not more than six.”

“And you don’t have any painkillers to go along with your miracle gel?”

The smile he got was sharp enough to cut, and Clark felt like it had. “None strong enough.”

“What about endorphins?”

“They’re the reason I’m still upright.”

Clark sighed. “What do I need to do?”

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Clark found himself lying on his bed with Batman on top of him, his legs wrapped around the other man’s, his arms keeping the Dark Knight’s pinned while also holding him still. It would have been more awkward if they’d been face to face, but they’d agreed it was better for the wound to be exposed to the air. A thick roll of Batman’s cape was knotted around his head, muffling the hair-raising screams from the neighbor’s ears while doing nothing to hide them from Superman’s. Batman had grimly sucked down half the nutrient paste while Clark carefully peeled off bandages saturated in blood and cut his costume away from the still-bleeding wounds. Then he’d looked away as Batman had plunged gel-laden fingers into his own wounds, smearing the stuff around by touch. Clark may have earned the title “Man of Steel”, but his stomach felt more like soggy cardboard when he even _thought_ about the potential damage his friend was stoically enduring.

They’d had just enough time to decide on their positioning before Batman had suddenly grunted, sounding as if he’d been kicked somewhere vital, and grimly tied his makeshift gag into place. Then he’d grunted again, half-doubling over before arching back, panting around the roll of cloth filling his mouth. Clark had grabbed him around the upper chest at that point and dragged him backwards until he’d fallen back onto the bed. So now he was cradling his wounded friend – gently, firmly, but _gently_ – and listening to him scream in unthinkable torment while bodily preventing him from thrashing around.

He couldn’t imagine how much pain Bruce had to be in. The man’s self-control and pain tolerance made Clark feel like a five-year-old with a skinned knee, and here he was screaming himself hoarse. At first, he’d simply listened in silence as Bruce – he couldn’t think of the other man as _Batman_ while he was screaming like that – cried out in growing agony. Then he’d murmured soothing phrases into the other man’s ear. _It’s going to be alright. You’re going to be fine. Just hang in there._ It was useless, he knew, but he couldn’t just lie there and _not_ try to help his friend in some way. After the first hour, he gave up any hope that Bruce was aware of anything past the pain and found it more of a relief than anything else. He’d tried singing lullabies – horribly off-tune, he knew; ironic that the man with super-hearing had a tin ear – but they were more for his comfort than anything else and when he ran out of words, he just hummed.

It still didn’t cover the sound of Bruce in pain.

Sometime during the third hour, he wept. Nothing dramatic, just quiet tears for the man who’d chosen to come here and ask for help rather than risk revealing his identity. Clark could have refused, but it would have meant watching him die, having that blood on his hands. Not an option. He could have overpowered Bruce and flown him to a hospital. It wouldn’t have been hard. Well, _probably_ wouldn’t have been hard. It depended on if Batman had the kryptonite on him, chose to pull it out, and which one of them was stronger in their respective weakened states. Still, assuming he’d won, he could have flown Batman to a hospital and made sure no one peeked under the mask. His secret would have been safe, and he’d have actual medical treatment instead of some experimental gel and a makeshift gag.

That would have meant violating Batman’s trust, though, and Clark was painfully aware of how precious a gift that was. He’d earned it slowly, in bits and pieces and lives saved and lives spared, but until tonight he hadn’t thought Batman trusted him quite this _much_. It was…humbling, in the unique way that Batman always made him feel. To be a superhero, to stand between the weak and the wicked and say “You shall not pass!” was hard enough for him, balancing the needs of the many against the fragile lie of a simple farmboy from Kansas. But he had _powers_. He was, literally, superhuman. Bruce…Bruce was an eight-year-old boy whose life had been shattered, and who’d built himself into a force that even Superman hesitated to challenge. When it came right down to it, there was _power_ , and then there was _strength_ , and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that of the two of them, Batman was the stronger.

Going into the fourth hour, he realized Bruce had fallen silent. At first, he was elated. The storm had passed! His friend wasn’t in indescribable agony anymore! Then he listened closer and heard the unnerving hiss of a voiceless scream, felt the tension in Batman’s body. He was still in pain, he’d just lost his voice. Somehow, that was even more horrifying, and Clark held the other man a hair tighter as he wept for the second time in as many hours.

Five and a half hours since Clark came home to find Batman in his kitchen, the screaming stopped. For a moment, he was afraid Bruce was dead – but then he heard the other man’s heartbeat, and felt the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Gingerly, he loosened his grip and pulled Bruce up onto the bed next to him. Then, cringing, he peered at the window that had been cut into Batman’s costume. The exposed flesh was covered in dried blood, but seemed solid enough under that. Clark stood up and immediately levitated because his legs were _not_ ready to take his weight after being locked around Bruce’s for almost six hours.

He took a few minutes to shake out his stiff limbs before fetching a warm, wet washcloth and gently dabbing the dried blood away. The skin beneath was shiny and pink but whole and smooth, not even a scar to hint at what had happened. He wondered if he should try getting Batman out of his bloodstained costume, but sandy eyes and that too-perfect skin convinced him that he should just sleep.

…he called in sick first, though. It didn’t take much acting to sound wretched, and the excuse that he’d been “up half the night with something” was both true and sounded like he was being discreet. Once that was over with, he looked at the exhausted figure lying on his bed and quailed at the thought of trying to wrestle Batman underneath the covers. Changing into pajamas – because he’d be damned if he was sleeping in his costume – gave him enough distraction that he could gnaw on the problem and be ambushed from the side by a solution. Gently, he untied Batman’s rolled-up cape and spread it out, inspecting it for damage or wet spots, but Bruce had rolled it with the water-resistant side out. Between Batman’s cape and Superman’s, they made a fairly decent blanket.

Satisfied with his efforts and too tired to do anything else, Clark climbed into bed where uneasy sleep claimed him.

When he woke up, Batman was gone.

He wasn’t _just_ gone, Clark discovered as he searched his apartment in a panic. He’d also taken his cape, the bag of gray nutrient paste, the empty tube of medical gel, everything that could be used to prove he’d ever been there. Even the scraps of his costume. The only reassurance Clark had that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing was his cape, folded and placed neatly on the kitchen table. All in all, it wasn’t very reassuring. Clark reached for the phone.

“Wayne Manor,” the elderly British gent said calmly after two rings.

“Alfred? This is Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Is Bruce…?”

“Ah, Mr. Kent.” The butler sounded pleased, which could be a good sign. “I’m afraid Master Bruce is indisposed; he seems to have, er, _caught_ something. I’m sure he’ll be his usual self tomorrow. Shall I tell him you called?”

“No.” Clark sighed as relief flooded him. “I just wanted to make sure he got back okay.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Mr. Kent, I do hope you appreciate the trust Master Bruce places in you.”

“I do, Alfred,” Clark said slowly, eyes on his folded cape. “I do. You know what? Let him know I called. Tell him…any time he needs help, I’ll be there for him.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said warmly.


	2. The second time was deliberate

The second time was deliberate.

It was a robot, some monstrosity of LexCorp’s, and Bruce Wayne was in Metropolis on business. WayneTech and LexCorp had been collaborating on something – probably this – and so when the thing broke free late at night, Batman was there treating it like a macabre rodeo by the time Superman flew in. He’d almost gotten it down, too. Not really surprising, Clark thought as he scanned it for potential weaknesses. After all, Bruce Wayne probably knew the thing’s specs inside and out.

“Need a hand?” Superman called cheerfully as he dodged three of its six flexible limbs – the ones with with stinger-like spikes on the ends.

“No.”

One of the limbs seemed to be trying to strike Batman, balanced on the robot’s back. “You sure?”

“Yes,” came the terse reply. Batman dodged out of the way, and the spike embedded itself in the thing’s own exposed wiring. “Gotcha,” he muttered in satisfaction.

Then the robot went crazy. Every other one of its flexible limbs shot at the caped figure on its back while the little stumpy ones gave out. Batman dodged two, three, four, but the fifth one struck him in the side and slammed him into the three right-hand limbs, which had stabbed themselves into the thing’s innards. Above the screams of tortured metal and frying circuitry, super-hearing picked up a single, gasped word: “Help.”

Superman saw red.

Heat vision severed the limb pinning Batman to the now-still construct and carefully – carefully, gently, human lives are so fragile – he reached out to remove the-

No.

Superman left the spike where it was, and trimmed the end of the limb away. If he pulled that thing out, Batman would probably die of blood loss. Better to leave it there for the moment.

“Batman,” he called with quiet urgency. “Batman, can you hear me?”

He didn’t say anything, but that cowled head nodded once, jerkily.

Clark hesitated for a moment before asking, “What do you want me to do?”

Gloved fingers moved over some control panel on his belt. That creepily silent flying thing of his descended from the sky, hovering mere feet away from them.

“Emergency override blue,” Batman whispered.

Nothing happened.

Superman frowned. “Emergency override blue?”

A panel slid aside, revealing a familiar tube and nozzled bag of nutrient paste. With mingled relief and horror, Clark grabbed both. The panel slid shut, and the ominous-looking vehicle ascended with the same lack of sound it had displayed on the way down.

“I guess you’re coming home with me,” he tried to joke, but Batman didn’t answer.

It was a swift and silent flight back to his apartment. He laid the unconscious Dark Knight carefully on the bed, on his right side so the leaking wound had no pressure on it. The curtains were drawn. He removed his cape and rolled it up, since Batman was lying on his, and then he stopped. What was he doing? He wasn’t qualified for this! Bruce would need to be gagged, but he would need that nutrient paste inside him before the gel started working, and at the same time, he was pretty sure Bruce couldn’t afford that much of a delay. He’d start bleeding heavily once the spike was removed. Okay. Not a problem. Super-speed meant he could remove the spike, empty the tube of gel into the wound, and press a –

Superman dashed to the linen closet and came back with a bath towel folded into a thick pad.

– big wad of cloth onto the wound before the blood had a chance to touch his bed. Batman was still unconscious, which was not a comforting thing. Okay. Positioning. Spooning would be best, Clark thought. One leg on top of Bruce’s, one arm securing his close to the waist, the other around the upper chest. Cradle Batman’s head against his chest so he didn’t hurt himself headbutting a Kryptonian in the chin. Wait, then how would he hold the towel in place? And what about the nutrient paste?

A few moments of fiddling with Batman’s gear proved futile. The contents of his junk drawer, however, yielded a roll of duct tape. Good enough! Batman was _still_ unconscious, and Clark was starting to panic.

Racing against his own fear, he forced Batman’s mouth open and tied the makeshift gag in place. Then he pulled out the spike, squeezed the entire tube of gel into the narrow but scarily deep wound – super-speed ensuring that it entered with enough velocity to penetrate as far down as the spike had gone – and tossed it aside with one hand while grabbing the towel with the other. That hand pressed the towel into place while the first fumbled for the end of the tape, and why hadn’t he thought to do this first? Clark resorted to holding the pad down with a knee and so he could use both hands to tape it down. Then he had just enough time to climb onto the bed and get into position before Batman went from ‘unconscious’ to ‘screaming in unimaginable pain’.

The fact that their positions were more physically comfortable this time didn’t help. Emotionally, psychologically, Clark was uncomfortably conflicted. He was _spooning Batman_ , and this should have felt awkward…but it didn’t. Aside from Batman screaming continuously into a gag. Clark found himself murmuring the same meaningless reassurances, singing lullabies badly, humming off-key. He still found himself weeping silently into the pillow while the man in his arms tried to thrash in mindless agony.

Halfway through the third hour, the muffled (and increasingly-hoarse) screams changed. There had been a rhythm to them, one that mercifully let Clark tune out the sound itself, and now that had gone to something choppier, more broken. Fear flooded him again, and he focused all his attention on Batman.

“Bruce?” he called softly. “Bruce, can you hear me?”

The broken cries didn’t change, but the head cradled against his chest held still and then nodded once.

“What’s wrong? Wait – is it safe to take the gag off?”

The sounds that Clark now recognized as sobbing grew quieter, and while that muscular frame was still tense, it was no longer fighting against him. Again, Bruce nodded.

“Alright, just give me a minute.”

Gingerly, he freed his arms and fumbled with stiff fingers at the knot. As the cloth fell out of Bruce’s mouth, a quiet keening sound escaped in the moment before he clamped his lips shut, trapping the whine in his throat. Two short, labored breaths followed.

“Hungry,” Batman whispered.

“Of course.” Relief chased the fear away, and Superman floated himself off the bed and over to where he’d left the bag of nutrient paste.

The nozzle’s cap was easy to get off, and Batman practically snatched it out of his hands to suck the paste down desperately, breathy little whimpers marking every exhalation. When about a third of the bag was empty, he released the nozzle with a hoarse groan. Superman caught it before it slipped entirely from his grasp.

“Talk to me,” Clark urged quietly. “What do you need?”

“Air,” came the whispered response, gloved fingers groping weakly at the cloth bundled on his side.

“Expose the wound to the air. Got it.”

Carefully, Superman peeled back the duct tape and lifted the terrycloth – not as bloodstained as he’d feared – from what was now a still-raw but no longer bleeding puncture wound. Bruce groaned again, clawing at his face, and sighed as he managed to pull the cowl back away from his face. His hair was sweaty and tousled. Panting, he rolled over onto his back. Then, surprisingly, his breathing evened out as he dropped into unconsciousness.

“Good idea,” Clark said quietly.

He tucked the bag into the crook of Batman’s arm in case he woke up again and then changed into his pajamas. This time, he was awake enough to be cognizant of the fact that while his bed was roomy for one big man, neither he nor Bruce were slight of build and Bruce was pretty well sprawled out. If Clark was going to get any sleep without forfeiting the bed, he was going to have to do some snuggling.

He wondered if he should feel guilty that he didn’t even hesitate.

It only made sense, he told himself as he wrapped one arm around Bruce’s outflung arm and draped the other over Batman’s chest. Not only did this position allow him to get his entire frame onto the bed without being in danger of falling off, but if Bruce woke up it would wake him up as well. And really, after the last four hours, it was incredibly comforting to feel the rise and fall of Batman’s chest as he slept.

 

What had to be a few hours later, Bruce shifted awkwardly and Clark came instantly awake.

“Bruce? What…?” Clark levered himself up and saw the other man wrestling with the bag of paste. “Right. Here, let me help.”

One arm behind Bruce’s shoulders, Clark lifted the other man up and scooted around to let him lean back against his chest while he held the bag and Bruce sucked down protein and glucose. He tried not to think about the dark hair pressed against his cheek or the way Batman wasn’t protesting the physical contact. This wasn’t…anything…it was just trust. One friend trusting the other to protect him in a time of weakness. He admired Bruce, respected him, drew strength from his determination and indomitable will. What he was doing now, that was a demonstration of respect. Bruce trusted him; he was acting in a way consistent with being worthy of that trust.

He realized that Bruce had once again dropped into sleep and sighed, grabbing the pillow he wasn’t sitting on and stuffing it between head and headboard. Compared with three hours of screaming torment, a few hours of sleep sitting up was nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

When Clark woke up next, the clock read 6:59 and Bruce was climbing out of bed, sucking the last mouthfuls of paste from the bag. He lunged for the clock before the alarm could go off.

“Bruce,” he said hesitantly, clock held in both hands, not looking at the other man. “I’ve got to grab a shower and go to work. I know it’s a little…bright…for your usual escape tactics, but you’re welcome to stay here until it gets dark. There’s food in the kitchen, towels in the linen closet, and my clothes should fit you pretty well. If you want.”

“I might just take you up on that,” Batman said grimly from behind him. “That gel takes a lot out of me, even _with_ the nutrient paste. My main concern is that I don’t have an explanation for where Bruce Wayne was last night.”

Grinning, Clark glanced over his shoulder at him. “You could always tell the truth: Bruce Wayne spent the night at Clark Kent’s place.” The expression on Bruce’s face made the grin waver and fade. “What?”

“Clark…do you have any idea what you’re implying there?”

“That we’re good friends? You’re a multi-million-dollar CEO and I’m a reporter, but we _have_ met before and it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility…”

Bruce covered his face briefly. “Clark, are you serious about Lois?”

He frowned. “Of course. Why?”

“If word gets out that Bruce Wayne spent the night with you, she’s going to think you’re serious about _me_.”

“Oh.” The word hung between them. Clark had the feeling that Bruce was trying to hint at something more than ruining his chances with Lois, but whatever it was, he wasn’t getting the hint. “Well, I won’t say anything, but if it will keep your secret…I won’t hesitate.”

Batman scowled, and it was creepy to see that expression on Bruce’s naked face. “You’re willing to suffer that kind of gossip? I’ve already got a history of being overly-friendly with the ladies; it will hardly make a ripple if I expand my interests to men. But your reputation is somewhat _cleaner_ than mine.”

Okay, now the implication was crystal-clear, and Clark felt like his face was on fire. Still, he was a man of his word and Bruce was a friend. “It’s better than both of our secrets getting out,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Go shower,” Bruce sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

Early in the evening, after a thankfully-quiet day reporting on the LexCorp-WayneTech robot found partially dismantled and inoperable, Clark entered his apartment with a bag of chinese take-out in one hand and a two-liter of root beer balanced in the crook of his arm while he wrestled the key out of the lock. Once he was inside, he kicked the door shut and left his burdens on the kitchen table before cautiously checking to see if he still had a guest. It wasn’t quite sundown yet, after all. The curtains were still drawn in the bedroom, and Bruce was curled up in his bed, dead to the world. There was a towel drying on the back of the chair, Batman’s costume was nowhere in sight, and Bruce was wearing powder-blue pajamas. A quick check of the kitchen showed that he’d eaten, at least: bologna and cheese sandwiches and a glass or two of milk. Not the stuff he was used to, no doubt, but better than nothing. The bathroom confirmed that Bruce had availed himself of the shower and scrubbed the bloodstains out of the Batsuit, which was hung on the shower rod to dry. Clark went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed.

“Hey, Bruce,” he said softly, one hand on his shoulder because it was better than the fleeting urge to run his fingers through that dark, messy hair. “Wake up, I brought chinese.”

Under the blanket, Bruce suddenly tensed. After a moment, he opened his eyes and half-glared up at Clark. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t care. I don’t keep much in the way of food, and I know you’re going to need some. C’mon, before it gets cold.” He stood up and started walking towards the kitchen. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a few things. Ginger beef, sweet and sour chicken, vegetable lo mein, pork fried rice, wonton soup, egg rolls, and an order of crab rangoons. Oh, and some root beer. They throw in a bottle for free if you spend over thirty dollars.”

Cheerfully, he unpacked the bag and opened all the containers before rummaging for paper plates, forks, and a pair of glasses. When he turned around with everything, Bruce was sitting at the table single-mindedly eating ginger beef with some of the disposable chopsticks they always threw in along with duck sauce, soy sauce, hot mustard, and a handful of fortune cookies. Wordlessly, he poured a glass of root beer and offered it to Bruce. Equally silent, Bruce took it, swallowed, and gulped down a third of the glass before returning to his meal. Clark sat and picked up an egg roll, more to have something to do with his hands than out of a need to eat, and watched in quiet admiration while Bruce made chopsticks look as effortless as everything else Batman did.

“What are you looking at?” Bruce demanded crankily the next time he stopped to drink.

“You,” Clark answered. “You look…” Cute. Adorable. Harmless. “…domestic. Also, I’m in awe that you can actually use those things.”

He grunted and put the ginger beef – or what was left of it – aside in favor of the lo mein. “I spent time in Japan,” he said shortly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat.” Clark idly took a bite of his egg roll.

Bruce leveled a flat, unhappy look at him.

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. It’s just…comforting, seeing you do normal human things like eat and sleep. It’s seeing the person behind the mask. You’re always so strong and invulnerable, and I just…” Clark shook his head. “You inspire me, but you also scare me a little.”

“So it’s reassuring, seeing that I’m a fragile human after all, is that it?”

The dark, angry tone made Clark sit up straight. “No, that’s not it at all! Bruce, you’re…” He sighed. “Before I chose to become Superman, I heard about the mysterious Batman in Gotham City. I thought I’d found someone else like me, who wasn’t entirely human, and who was putting his powers to use keeping innocents safe. I saw that I could do the same thing. When I found out you didn’t _have_ powers…I didn’t believe it at first. It seems impossible for you to do the things Batman does and still be just a human. Knowing that you are, and how much work you put into it, just makes it more impressive. You’re usually so aloof, so untouchable, like if you got cut you’d bleed shadow or your circuits would be exposed or something. Seeing you like this…” Clark shook his head. “It’s not like seeing the curtain pulled back and having the Great and Mysterious Wizard of Oz revealed as a charlatan. It’s like being permitted to go behind the curtain and entrusted with the secret that the Great and Mysterious Wizard of Oz is just a man with a machine.”

Bruce drained his glass; Clark refilled it. “And now that you’ve seen behind the curtain?”

“I’m not scared of you anymore,” he answered softly. Then his eyes widened. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that! You’re still scary and intimidating!”

“Digging yourself deeper, Kent,” Bruce growled around soft noodles.

Clark rubbed his eyes for a moment. “Okay. There’s two kinds of scaring. There’s when someone _tries_ to be scary, and there’s when someone’s _not_ trying to be scary but is anyway. Like when little kids are afraid of Santa. When you want to be scary, you’re damn scary. But you don’t accidentally scare me anymore when you’re not trying.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bruce said dryly.

“Good. I meant it as one.” Clark smiled at him and poured himself a glass of root beer. “So what are you going to say Bruce Wayne was up to last night? If anyone asks, of course.”

Bruce took a drink and put on a self-congratulatory expression. “I ran into a real knockout who swept me off my feet and took me home. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, and…” He made vague, suggestive gestures over his chest then shook his head, grinning. “I’ve got to say – I’m not usually a screamer, but I was pretty hoarse by the time either of us got any sleep. We spooned for a while, and I wound up sleeping half the day, but I _needed_ the rest after all that!”

He made it sound so…dirty, Clark thought, trying not to choke on his egg roll. He _knew_ what had happened, knew every fact Bruce was referring to and what was being omitted, and it _still_ sounded like he’d had several hours of sex with a well-endowed woman. “That’s…very convincing,” he muttered, aware that his face was quite red.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Batman growled as he opened the container of wonton soup. Clark watched him pluck the wontons out and devour them whole before drinking half of the broth in one go. Then, amazingly, he laid down the chopsticks.

“Done already?” he joked.

Bruce eyed the nearly-empty container of ginger beef. “For the moment. I burn a lot of calories on a normal night; the gel accelerates that, too.”

“I guess you would, huh? Well, you’re welcome to it.” Clark grinned and took a drink of his root beer. “I mostly like just smelling it; that and sunlight are enough for me.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Bruce said shortly, reaching for the ginger beef and picking up the chopsticks again.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Batman’s glare was just as effective without the cowl. “I’ll. Pay. You. Back.”

“…right. Not arguing. You win. How do you _do_ that?” he asked incredulously.

“Do what?” Bruce mumbled, mouth full.

Clark gestured with the half-eaten egg roll. “You’re sitting in my kitchen, wearing my pajamas, eating chinese take-out, and you’re _still_ intimidating as hell when you want to be.”

Bruce half-choked, swallowed, and then threw his head back and laughed. It was the first time Clark had ever heard him laugh with genuine amusement, and he decided he liked the sound. By the time the other man’s mirth wound down, he was grinning.

“Only you, Clark,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “Only you.”

He didn’t give an answer or explanation, but Clark found that he didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of 'World's Finest' have been slightly altered; Batman's identity was never exposed to Lois Lane. The cowl has been shown to be separate from the cape in episodes of B:TAS, so there's no reason to think that wouldn't remain the case.


	3. The third time, he was prepared

The third time, he was prepared.

Clark had learned long ago that Batman’s ability to plan was just as formidable as any superpower. That’s why he wasn’t really surprised when the package was delivered, even if the contents were more extensive than he’d expected. A pair of linen pajamas, jeans, and a long-sleeved T-shirt were packed on top. The tube of gel and the bag of nutrient paste were wrapped up in a blanket that was soft fleece on one side and waterproof on the other – clearly meant to protect his bed from blood – along with a gag that looked like it had been made specifically to muffle sound and was probably fitted exactly to Batman’s head, and five thousand dollars. In cash.

Clark glared at the bills, a mix of hundreds and twenties. A check or money order, he could have refused to cash or ripped up. Damn him for being so good at this. As he reluctantly separated the large bills from the smaller ones, a folded paper fluttered out. It was a hand-written note, unsigned.

_This is payment for your past consultations. Feel free to investigate standard consultation fees and determine a more fair rate for the future, but $200/hr is the lowest I’ll go._

_Take Lois out to dinner._

….damn him for being so good at this.

Lois accepted his dinner invitation, and she didn’t bat an eye when he told her the meal was being paid for by a consulting fee. He wasn’t sure she liked him as more than a friend, but it was a pleasant evening anyway. The box stayed under his bed, an out-of-sight reminder that the next time Batman got seriously injured, he’d come to Clark expecting help.

Not that Clark had any choice, really. Or was objecting. With Batman, severe injury was an inevitability rather than a possibility, and he was _glad_ , in a grim kind of way, that he was now equipped to deal with the next emergency. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to use the contents of the box for a while, and that maybe he’d get a little forewarning.

As it turned out, he got a _lot_ of forewarning.

The crowd caught his attention first. They always did; humanity clustered around the unexpected, and the unexpected was usually something that needed his attention. This time, though, the unexpected was being broadcast on the TVs in the window of an electronics store. The owner might have objected to his shop being blocked by non-paying customers, but he was glued to one of the sets inside, just as spellbound as the people outside. Clark – because he was on his way home from work – stopped to see what everyone was watching.

The Joker had hijacked a news station somewhere and was laughing over having trapped Batman in some lethal maze, providing mocking narration for each minor injury Batman suffered and insincere praise for evasions and destruction. He was already limping – a muttered question to a bystander revealed that Batman had taken some kind of arrow in the thigh – and Clark watched, helpless, as he suffered minor cuts and major bruising. He was doing well enough, destroying each threat with minimal injury, until the javelin. He could have dealt with the robot, he could have dodged a spear being hurled at him. But he couldn’t do both at once, and the crowd cried out in sympathetic pain as the blade went completely through his upper arm. Batman collapsed, but Clark began an internal countdown and just as he reached the end of it, the Dark Knight surged to his feet and ripped the weapon out of his flesh, stabbed it into the robot’s face, and used it as a stepping stone to launch himself into the shadowed ceiling. The Joker didn’t like that, but the crowd practically held its breath, waiting.

Batman didn’t disappoint. He burst into the studio like a whirlwind of darkness, dispatching thugs with silent fury. Clark, however, noted that his right arm hung limp at his side. Batman advanced grimly on the Joker, who drew what looked like a toy gun and shot it. A flag that read BANG! emerged. Batman’s eyes narrowed and he took another step, and then the flag was suddenly embedded in his chest. That made him falter, and his involuntary cry of pain had Clark wincing. Joker shrieked with glee and smacked him with a chair, knocking him into a bank of monitors that cracked and smoked as he broke them with his body and fell to the floor.

The crowd held its breath. Three. Two. One. Batman lifted his head, the glare powerful enough to make onlookers take half a step back, and stood up. Cape completely enshrouding him, hiding all evidence of the numerous injuries he’d sustained, he stalked towards the Joker with implacable, relentless menace. Then he leaped. The cape and camera angles hid whatever he did next, but when he stood, the Joker was handcuffed and barely conscious. Police burst in moments later, and the feed cut out.

Clark ran for home. Some part of his mind was already calculating what would need to be done: the suit would have to come off, probably entirely. Luckily, both the thigh wound and the arm wound were on the right side. More spooning, maybe. It would depend on that chest wound. He’d have to split the gel between at least three injuries, maybe more.

The instant he got home and saw his kitchen table, another thought elbowed the others out. Food. Bruce would need food after this, and lots of it. Clark picked up the phone, chose a magnet at random off the fridge, and dialed.

“Hello, Pizza Palace? For delivery, please. Um...what’s the largest size you have? …uh-huh. And it feeds how many? Great. I’ll take two. Uh…one meat lover’s and the other…what’s on the steak one? That sounds good. Okay. Yes, a two-liter of root beer. Okay. Clark Kent. Yes, that’s my number. Yes, that’s correct. Cash. Great, thanks.”

Food was on its way. Hopefully, it would arrive before Batman did. Clark opened the balcony door, closed the curtains, and dove for the box under the bed. Pajamas and clothes on the chair for later, check. Waterproof blanket, fleece side up, on the bed. Check. Nutrient paste on the bedside table – hastily, he removed everything else from the table and put it on the floor – for easy reach, check. The gag got draped on top of it; the gel placed next to it. Clothes. He stripped out of his and pulled on some battered old jeans and a promotional T-shirt that bloodstains could only improve. The stained towel from last time and a washcloth floating in a bowl of water went onto the counter in the kitchen, leaving him nothing to do but make sure the table was clear for the pizzas and wait.

Five minutes later, he picked up the phone again.

“Wayne Manor,” Alfred said politely.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think; sometimes, that reflex got on his nerves.

“Ah, Mr. Kent. So good of you to call. Master Bruce will be leaving momentarily, but I can assure you that the, er, _package_ should arrive in roughly half an hour.”

Half an hour. Clark glanced at his watch; pizza should arrive in twenty. “Thank you, Alfred,” he said with audible relief. “Tell him I’m wishing him a safe trip, and I’m ready for the package.”

“I’ll do that, sir. If it’s not too bold? Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, the pizza delivery man handed over two enormous boxes and a bottle of soda, then walked off in a daze with a hundred-dollar bill and the words “Keep the change” echoing in his ears. Ten minutes after that, Batman stumbled through the curtain and would have fallen if Clark hadn’t been waiting to catch him.

“Pizza or paste?” he asked quietly as he helped the other man to the bed.

“Paste,” came the grunted reply.

Clark closed and locked the balcony door, then offered him the nozzled bag. Bruce took it with his left hand, he noted. “What are we dealing with?”

“Flesh wounds. Major tissue damage only.”

He wasn’t reassured. “Arm, leg, chest…am I missing any?”

A lesser man might have looked guilty. Batman scowled. “Nothing major.”

“Good. Now get out of your suit.”

The scowl deepened, although the effect was somewhat ruined by Batman drinking sludge out of a bag.

“I’m serious, Bruce,” Clark said firmly, arms crossed. “I saw you take that arm wound. I heard about the one in your thigh. I know you; you’ll hide anything you don’t think is bad enough to worry about. I want you out of the suit so I can get at the ones that need gel, and _I’ll_ be the judge of whether or not they do. You came to me because you trust me. Well, _trust_ me.”

The silence stretched while Batman discovered his glare had just as much effect on Clark’s determination as it would have had against a steel door. “The cowl stays,” he ground out finally.

“That’s fine. Do you need any help getting the rest of it off?”

“No.” Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded petulant.

Clark took the bag of paste and Batman’s cape and deliberately kept his back turned while soft sounds of effort and pain mixed with the rustle of cloth and the quiet rattle of the impossible number of things he kept in his utility belt. Finally, there was a hissing sigh.

“Satisfied?” Batman growled.

The leg wound was the first thing Clark looked at when he turned around to see Bruce mostly prone, the pieces of his costume strewn on the floor, clad only in his briefs and his cowl. It was seeping, but not bleeding heavily. Then he noticed the faint discoloration of other, older wounds alongside minor scrapes and cuts and the blues and purples of deep bruising. His eyes went to Batman’s arm next; that wound looked more serious. It was several inches long and had to hurt immensely. The one on his chest wasn’t nearly as worrying. Whatever armor the Batsuit contained had prevented it from going _too_ deep, and hitting the floor must have pushed it out at an angle rather than forcing it deeper. The fact that his broad chest was crisscrossed with the remnants of past injuries just made Clark press his lips together firmly. He wondered how many times the material of Batman’s costume had hid evidence of cuts or punctures, and how many times some punk had been frightened out fighting because his adversary had unflinchingly taken the hit and not been felled by it.

The weight of Batman’s gaze – angry, furious, but hiding fear and shame – demanded an answer. “I think I should put gel on both sides of the arm wound,” he said evenly. “Unless you think I should try to get it inside.”

Something in the other man’s fierce demeanor snapped, tension bleeding out intangibly. “If you can manage it,” he replied warily. “I’d like to not lose the use of the arm completely.”

Clark nodded and reached for the gel. “I’m going to want you on your left side this time. Ready?”

“Gag first. The strap clips…”

“I see it.” Grimly, because he hated having to do this even if it was necessary, Clark unclipped one side of the gag and slipped the leather around the back of Bruce’s head while he grunted and sat up enough to take the thick roll between his teeth. Just as he’d suspected, it was made to Batman’s measurements and the clip just barely reached to connect. “Comfortable?” he asked, then added, “Well, more comfortable than using a cape?”

A tiny nod was his answer. The chest wound got gel dabbed into it first. Then the thigh puncture got a good squeeze. Finally, using super-speed, he squirted the lion’s share of the gel into the wound that was less a stab and more nearly slicing muscle from bone. Bruce rolled onto his side as soon as it was done, eyes closed, and held still while Clark lay down behind him. One leg over Bruce’s to hold them still, like last time. Both arms around Bruce’s torso, pinning his arms, and his head cradled against Clark’s chest. Too late, Clark remembered the washcloth and the intent of wiping at least some of the blood off first. Then Bruce grunted and began to strain against him, the short, violent jerks that meant he was fighting his own reactions, and Clark realized the wounds would have resumed bleeding anyway.

The first hour was the worst, he thought as he paid close attention to Bruce’s arm and monitored the strength he was using to keep it pinned so that he didn’t cause more damage than he was trying to prevent. In the first hour, the screaming was fresh and raw and loud. The gag kept the noise down significantly, better than rolled-up capes had, but that meant nothing to super-hearing. The first hour, neither of them were yet resigned to things and Clark whispered reassurances, mangled lullabies, and wished there were something he could do to ease his friend’s torment.

The second hour, Bruce started losing his voice and the tension in his body eased. That wasn’t entirely accurate; during the first hour, he thrashed – or tried to – in an instinctual attempt to escape the pain. In the second hour, he merely held himself rigid. Clark found himself nuzzling Batman’s cowl, silently crying for his friend and whispering promises that everything would be alright in the end.

In the third hour, something new happened. The familiar rhythm of Batman’s nearly-silent screams faltered, fracturing into shorter cries, and the tension in his body changed from trying to arch or thrash to trying to curl up. His left hand kept trying to reach for the healing chest wound, and finally Clark threaded his fingers through Bruce’s and held his hand down. Several minutes later, it occurred to him that the level or quality of pain must have shifted to something too strong to fight entirely, but not as strong as it had been. The shuddering quality of his inhalations was the final clue that Bruce was crying.

Using more wisdom than Batman might have credited him with, Clark did nothing. The deepest trust that had been placed in him was the trust that he would maintain Batman’s dignity, and the proof of that trust lay scattered on his floor. It wasn’t the threat of physical vulnerability that Batman feared, but emotional. He told himself that what he was doing – restraining Batman without seeming to notice that he was sobbing in pain – was no different than standing between him and a falling object when he wasn’t able to move out of the way. He wouldn’t call attention to it if it were a collapsing wall or falling rock, so it behooved him to not call attention to this.

Shortly into the fourth hour, the tension left Batman’s body and his breathing evened out. Clark loosened his grip cautiously, waiting several minutes until he was sure the other man was asleep, then disentangled himself and promptly fell out of bed. Feeling foolish, he shook out his limbs and collected the pieces of Batman’s costume, piling them in the corner with the cape. No reaction from the bed. He went to the kitchen and ran the hot water until it warmed up, rinsing the washcloth and refilling the bowl. Then gently, carefully, he rolled his guest onto his back and washed every bit of dried blood he could find off of Bruce’s exposed skin. The puncture wound in the thigh looked close to healed. All the scrapes and cuts had closed up. Even the deep bruising looked like it was fading. The gash on Bruce’s chest was closing nicely, although it had bled quite a bit. It was the arm he was worried about, though.

Slowly, he washed the dried blood off of Bruce’s arm. There was a _lot_ of it. The wounds were still angry and raw, but they weren’t bleeding anymore. Clark looked at them for a long minute before bringing the bowl back into the kitchen. If last time was any indication, Bruce would be waking up soon, and he’d be hungry. The paper plates wouldn’t do, here; Clark grabbed a real one and piled several pieces from each cooled pizza onto it before returning to the bedroom. Unclipping the gag was a trick, but he got both sides undone and slid the leather strap out from behind Batman’s head. After a moment’s contemplation, he gently pulled the thick roll out of Batman’s mouth and put it, and the strap, aside.

That was out of the ordinary enough to wake him, it seemed. Clark gently pressed his right wrist against the bed while he stirred, blinked, and finally scowled.

“What…?” It was a whisper, nearly soundless thanks to vocal cords that hadn’t yet repaired themselves.

“You passed out,” Clark said quietly, still not releasing the other man’s wrist. “I thought you might wake up hungry soon. Paste or pizza?”

“Paste.”

Bruce’s jaw was probably as stiff as Clark’s arms and legs had been, he realized. Something to note for the future: Bruce wouldn’t be up for anything he had to chew until the morning. “Alright. Let me help you up. Your arm still looks pretty rough; how does it feel?”

“Hurts.”

Well, that was no surprise. Clark once again lifted his friend and slid behind him, acting as a support while holding the bag of nutrient paste. It felt like nursing a very large and muscular baby.

“Going back to sleep when you’re done?” he asked quietly. Bruce nodded. “Okay. I’m going to put the pizza away before I come back, and then I want you on your side again so I can hold your arm still. I’m glad it’s Friday, though. I was on eggshells the whole day last time you were here.”

“Sorry,” came the breathy whisper.

“Not your fault. Although what you were doing getting involved with LexCorp again is beyond me.”

“Getting a foothold.”

Clark wondered what it meant that Bruce was actually talking to him despite pain, exhaustion, and near-inability to speak at all. Getting a foothold? In other words, Bruce was positioning himself to get a controlling interest in LexCorp. Luthor was clever enough to be a real threat to Superman, ambitious enough to be a real threat in other ways, but he didn’t have that relentless ability to plan that Batman had. Which meant that some day in the future, Luthor would find himself financially defanged and declawed.

“You’re a very dangerous man,” he said, not sure whether he was expressing awe or attempting to chide.

Bruce laughed soundlessly. “Sleep,” he breathed when he was done laughing.

Clark set the bag of paste safely out of the way. “Alright.”

“Wait,” Bruce whispered as he began to move. “Cowl.”

“You want it off? You’re sure?”

“Hot,” was the terse reply.

Gently, Clark pulled the cowl off and tossed it onto the pile with the rest of Batman’s costume. Bruce sighed with relief as the cooler air hit his sweaty hair, left hand twitching as though he wanted to run his fingers through it but didn’t have the energy. Clark held his breath and gently scratched that tousled black hair the way he’d ruffle a dog’s fur, feeling the other man relax even more and wondering if he should be filled with delight and warmth at having elicited this reaction. Guiltily, he stopped, but Bruce didn’t protest. Probably asleep already. It was awkward sliding back out and laying him down, but the pizza had to be put away.

Clark spent several minutes staring at the boxes – a foot and a half by two feet – and at his fridge before stacking the rest of the square slices into a solid block on the plate, cocooning the whole thing in gratuitous amounts of plastic wrap, and shoving it into the unused fruit drawer.

“And that’s why Batman’s the tactician,” he muttered as he flattened and folded the pizza boxes until they fit in his recycling bin.

Making sure to support the still-healing arm, he rolled Bruce onto his side and crawled into bed behind him again. This time, he was able to get into a more comfortable position as he only had to worry about holding the wounded arm still, and he wound up with his face pressed into the back of Bruce’s neck.

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke up, Bruce was standing by the chair in his pajama bottoms, moving his right arm experimentally and frowning.

“Something wrong?” Clark asked muzzily.

“Just seeing how it healed. Everything seems to be reconnected, but I’ll have to wait until the metabolic acceleration ends to really test it.” Satisfied that his arm wasn’t going to burst open and cause him to bleed to death, he pulled the pajama top on and buttoned it briskly.

Clark sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering what time it was since the clock was on the floor. “Pizza’s in the fruit drawer,” he said in Bruce’s general direction. “I got meat lover’s and steak with peppers and onions.”

Footsteps indicated Bruce leaving for the kitchen. Nearly falling out of bed a second time gave Clark the alertness brought by adrenaline, and he bundled up the waterproof fleece, the gag, the empty tube, and the empty paste bag so he could dump them in the hall, out of sight. After a moment, the pieces of the Batsuit followed. Once the bedroom was clear, he pulled back the curtains and spent several blissful minutes staring, eyes closed, into the rising sun and letting its yellow light wash over him, into him, through him until he felt like he was a glowing vessel filled with luminous gold. Only then did he turn around to see Bruce leaning against the bedroom door holding a plate stacked high with cold pizza, working his way steadily through the slices and looking…wistful.

“Don’t you ever do that?” Clark asked, somewhat self-conscious but glutted enough with life-giving light that he didn’t feel silly.

“That would require being awake before ten,” he answered dryly. “I keep later nights than you do.”

“One of the perks of not having a nine-to-five job, eh?” Cheerfully, he stretched. “How’s everything feeling?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Batman growled.

Too full of sunlight to care, Clark asked, “Why not?”

“Because you’re an optimist.”

It took him a second to realize that was the answer to ‘why would I not want you to answer’ instead of ‘how do you feel’ and therefore, the answer to the latter had to be discouraging. “Still hurts?”

“It’s tolerable,” Bruce said shortly around a mouthful of pizza.

It occurred to Clark that Batman cared. That he hadn’t answered, not out of his usual hiding vulnerability, but out of wanting to spare Clark’s feelings. That, in fact, he hadn’t intended to do anything but answer honestly. He wanted to grin foolishly, he wanted to hug the other man, he wanted to do something, _anything,_ to call attention to and celebrate this voluntary crack in Batman’s ironclad defenses…but doing any of that would cause him to retreat. Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “You know, you can heat that up in the microwave.”

Bruce stopped chewing and for a long moment, speared him with an intensely searching look. Unsure what was going on, Clark met his gaze and held it. Then, apparently satisfied, the older man gave a tiny nod.

Clark desperately wanted to ask what had just happened. Instead, he scratched at his scalp. “I need a shower. You want one before I use all the hot water?”

Swallowing, Bruce shook his head. “I’m going to finish these and borrow your bed for another couple of hours.”

“Help yourself,” he replied cheerfully.

Shower, shave, dressing, paper and coffee. Saturday-morning cartoons because dammit, he was an adult and he could watch cartoons if he wanted. Somewhere around ten-thirty, he heard Bruce get up and use the bathroom, followed by a shower. Just as the last cartoon ended, he came over and sat on the other end of the couch with what looked like half a pizza stacked on a plate and a gas-station tumbler of root beer, wearing the clothes that he’d included in the box. Clark couldn’t help it; he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Bruce growled, glowering.

“You look like a frat boy,” Clark apologized. “The jeans, the shirt, the pizza and soda. It’s funny enough seeing Bruce Wayne being so…informal middle-class. Knowing that you’re…” he trailed off, laughing harder.

Batman’s scowl thawed into a wry smile. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. At least I don’t have to worry about my enemies seeing me like this and losing any fear they ever had of me.” He took a long drink from the tumbler. “If you ever breathe a _word_ of this to anyone, though, I’ll sneak in while you’re at work and blow three ounces of kryptonite dust into every corner of this apartment.”

He was fairly sure Bruce wouldn’t _actually_ do that. Mostly. Still, he was laughing too hard to be properly intimidated. “Duly noted,” he chuckled. “It’ll be our secret.”

“I sense you’re not taking me seriously,” Bruce deadpanned.

Clark grinned at him. “World’s greatest detective!”

He didn’t take the bait. “Did you take Lois out to dinner?”

Well, that killed the fun. “I did. I still don’t think she likes me as more than a friend, but she seems fond enough of Superman. Maybe if she knew…”

“What makes you think she doesn’t?” Bruce asked, then shoved half a slice of pizza in his mouth.

“If she knew, she’d…” Clark frowned. “Unless she was trying to…” He looked at Bruce, still chewing grimly. Damn him, he’d done that on purpose. “I have enemies,” he said slowly. “Either she’s protecting Clark Kent from Superman’s enemies, or…she doesn’t want to get any more involved than she already is.”

Bruce chewed his way through the rest of the slice, watching as the reporter’s instinct kicked into action.

“But if she knows who I am, then it’s not much of a stretch to figure _you_ out since neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne are in town often…” He frowned into the distance. “That LexCorp-WayneTech robot that went rogue. I called out sick. Bruce Wayne was nowhere around. I would have put the pieces together if I’d only had a suspicion; those were some _very_ irregular dots just begging to be connected. And she…” Clark shook his head and sighed. “No wonder you’re so grim all the time. Think I should give up on her?”

Bruce washed the last of his pizza down with the last of the root beer. “I think you should ask _her_ that,” he said in Batman’s gravelly tones.

“Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised?” Clark sighed again. “Probably not.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said softly.

“Don’t be. I should have thought of all this myself a long time ago. I guess I should do that today, before she picks up on me acting weird around her and asks where someone could overhear.” He laughed briefly. “And here I thought the laundry was going to be the highlight of my day.”

“What am I, then? Chopped liver?”

There was a smile on Bruce’s face. Clark stared at it for a moment. It was small and somewhat self-mocking, but it was a _smile,_ and he found himself grinning foolishly. “Not anymore,” he teased. “That was last night. Now you’re just liver.”

For the second time, Bruce’s laughter washed over him, untainted by bitterness or pain, and Clark soaked it up the way he’d reveled in the morning sun. However things went with Lois, he still had this rare treasure to bolster him. He’d made Batman laugh, and if he could do that – _twice_ – then he must be doing something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I googled "Pizza Palace" to see if there was a real restaurant by that name and, if so, if they had a menu posted online. They are. They did. Two specialty sheet pizzas come to about $60. The reason Clark ordered two is that a week or two after the second time, he checked his pantry and discovered that not only had Bruce devoured most of his bread, lunchmeat, and cheese, but also most of an unopened jar of peanut butter and most of a family-sized box of cereal washed down with more than half a gallon of milk. I did some rough calculations, and Bruce's basal metabolic rate is about 2200 calories. Factor in his lifestyle, and you've got a man who has to take in 4300+ calories a day while pretending in public that he only needs half of that. Given his busy schedule, he's got to be used to packing away huge quantities of food once or twice a day. 
> 
> In the entirety of S:TAS, not ONCE do we actually get to see Clark's kitchen or where the apartment's door is. We see the bathroom - twice! - but not where it's actually located within the apartment. Conversely, we see everything of Lois's apartment EXCEPT the bathroom. The sheer expansive floor plans combined with huge windows and a significant lack of doors makes me think Lex Luthor's aesthetics were involved in the design process. I'm sort of assuming he handed the blueprints off to someone and said 'I'll provide the land and the materials; go build this for me'.


	4. Lois interlude

“Lois? It’s Clark.”

She shifted the phone to her shoulder and finished spreading mayo on the bread. “Hey, Smallville. What’s up?”

“Listen, I…there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Oh. This was serious. Maybe in a good way, probably in an awkward way. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“Not over the phone.”

Oh-ho. The plot thickens, she thought, already getting that There’s A Story Here And I Will Find It feeling fluttering somewhere below her heart. “Okay, where?”

She listened intently as Clark specified three-fifteen in the park, a section where the visibility was excellent and no one could come within earshot undetected.

“I’ll be there,” she promised fervently. This, whatever it was, was going to be _good_.

 

* * *

 

 

Quarter after three. Lois looked around, noting the absence of anyone else in sight, and checked her watch. Again. If Kent had stood her up, she was going to give him a piece of her mind the next time she saw him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Somehow, it wasn’t a surprise that Superman was floating behind her. He looked nervous under his usual I Am A Young And Carelessly Handsome God expression, and like lightning she connected the dots. Bam, call from Clark. Bam, nervous. Bam, Superman nervous.

Lois crossed her arms. “So, you finally decided to tell me?”

He nearly fell out of the air at that. “You _knew?_ ”

“I’m a _reporter_. Of _course_ I knew. It didn’t take long to figure it out.” Oh, he was flustered now. This was getting good. “C’mon, how stupid do you think I am?”

“But…you never…”

“Yeah, I never said anything.” In a show of deliberate nonchalance, she studied her nails and hid the manic grin trapped in her throat like a rabid bat. “Silly me, I thought you’d man up at some point and tell me yourself. Maybe after you saw me kiss your doppelgänger and I asked you out to dinner. That would have been a good time. Who knows what he told me, right?”

“Lois, I…”

She looked up to see him wearing a hangdog expression that wouldn’t be out of place on a high school would-be boyfriend and crossed her arms. “Yes?” she asked, not giving him any openings at all. No, he could damn well work for this.

“Batman’s not the only arrogant one,” he muttered, and her eyebrows shot up. He took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself. “I should have told you, and it was arrogant of me to assume you didn’t know. I was afraid of what you’d say when you found out. Lois…this…” He gestured to his costume. “This isn’t _me_. It’s not who I think of myself as. If there was going to be anything between us, I wanted it to be without the cape.”

Well. She couldn’t really argue with that. A man who _didn’t_ want to trade on his good looks and fame, who’d have thought? “Alright,” she said, letting her crossed arms fall to her hips. “I’ll give you that. But you kind of made it impossible for Clark Kent to get anywhere when everyone knows that Superman has a thing for Lois Lane and wonders exactly what’s between them. I mean, you’re not exactly Mr. Average out of the costume.”

He winced. “I know. And I don’t blame you if you don’t want things between us to go any further. I’ve got some dangerous enemies.”

“You make it sound like I’m some sort of shrinking violet who’s never been in danger before Superman showed up.” She grinned at him. “Come on, Smallville, why do you think you have to rescue me so often?”

Superman looked startled. Then he laughed. “I never thought of that,” he confessed, chuckling. “Boy, have I been an idiot. I should have known better. You dumped Lex Luthor, of _course_ you’re not afraid of danger.” He stopped to think for a few seconds. “Do you suppose that’s part of why he hates me so much?”

“The one man in Metropolis he can’t intimidate away from me? Yeah, probably.” Lois grinned. “He really hates it when someone has something he can’t have. Bruce drives him _crazy_.”

“He does?”

She smirked. “Bruce is a financial and technological Superman. It galls Lex that he nixed the military applications of the first robot they built together, and it galls him even _more_ that he had the _chutzpah_ to waltz back in and suggest they work together on that second robot, but what really gets his goat is that he _needed_ Bruce’s team for that.” Smugly, she examined her fingernails again. “I can’t wait until he figures out Bruce is maneuvering for a quiet takeover. I’ve already got the story half-written, I just keep it updated. By the time Bruce makes his move, all I’ll have to do is get Lex’s reaction and have Perry stop the press.”

Superman became suddenly aware that his mouth had fallen open at some point, and closed it with a snap. “How-” he started to ask, but thought better of it. “You keep in touch with Bruce,” he half-accused. “Even after he left you hanging.”

Right, the transfer to Gotham that never happened. Lois grinned to herself; if he didn’t know this one, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Still, she couldn’t exactly say _Oh, it’s okay that he spontaneously broke it off and forgot my number because neither of us wants to be the one to say that I know he’s Batman and he owes me for keeping my mouth shut._ “I admire his cunning,” she said after a minute. “If I burned that bridge, I’d be killing the goose with the golden eggs, only instead of gold I get inside information.”

“So, uh…” Again, the Man of Steel braced himself. “Are you and he…?”

Lois laughed; there was no other choice, it was really too funny. “He asked me the same thing about Clark Kent,” she said finally, arms crossed low. “You don’t have anything to worry about. We’re just good friends.”

“I have to admit, I’m glad for that,” Superman said with relief that transmuted into concern and alarm as Lois prodded his chest with one finger.

“You _should_ be glad I’m a good _journalist,_ ” she snapped. “A fine, upstanding reporter with ethics too strong to allow me to go straight to the tabloids with this because I’m too good a friend to gather the evidence I’d need to write the biggest story _of the_ _century_ and have it published anywhere but alongside stories of Elvis getting married to Bigfoot.”

“I’m very glad.”

There was no hesitation at all, and only the barest breath of warning before he stepped forward and put his arms around her. Then he hesitated, because he knew Lois would go for the family jewels in a heartbeat if she objected, and even on the Man of Steel, that would hurt. That hesitation was the reason she didn’t. Superman he might be, but he was still Clark Kent from Smallville, and Ma Kent would have tanned his hide if he’d even _thought_ about treating a girl poorly. So she smiled, and draped her arms around his neck, and went on tiptoes as he bent his head, and tried not to wonder if Lana Lang had ever kissed these lips.

“So,” she murmured as they parted, “no objections to playing it cool with Clark?”

“I still wish we didn’t have to,” he sighed. “But you’re right.”

“Hey, cheer up, Smallville. At least you know it’s not that I’m not interested.”

Superman laughed ruefully. “I should have known, really. Nothing in my life is _ever_ simple.”

Lois smiled, and he smiled in response. “And if it ever gets safe for things to heat up…”

His smile flickered out, and she wondered what he knew that she didn’t. “I’ll let you know,” he promised. “For now, there’s something else I have to take care of.”

The hands went right back on her hips. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Superman smiled abashedly. “The timer on my laundry just went off.”

She wanted to not laugh, really she did. Well, no, that was a lie. She wanted to feel guilty about laughing, but she didn’t. By the time she could breathe, straighten up, and wipe the tears from her eyes, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lois hasn't confirmed 100% that Bruce is Batman, but she's not dumb and those were some very suspicious dots begging to be connected during 'World's Finest'. It's a sort of don't ask, don't tell situation.
> 
> In retrospect, I think this is where I started losing control of the story. Oh well.


	5. The fourth time was different

The fourth time was different.

It had been a drizzly, miserable week. The kind of week that made you doubt that spring had actually gotten the memo about winter’s shift being over. The kind of week that saw Clark hovering guiltily above the dark and dismal clouds whenever he could, where the light of the sun could reassure him that all would be well, and wishing he didn’t have to descend into the cold and wet again. Metropolis had been quiet, which was a relief. Gotham, too, had been quiet. Or, at least, as quiet as that city ever got. There had been some commotion when D.A. Dent initially flipped and went on a crime spree, but it had settled down months ago. Clark had done some digging, because Bruce Wayne’s re-election endorsement had seemed more personal than was usual for him, and discovered that he and Harvey Dent had been old friends.

He worried what this was doing to Bruce, but Gotham had been quiet.

The sullen clouds and their icy little raindrops stole what feeble light should have illuminated the city as Clark made his way home after work, gusts of wind blowing spitefully under umbrellas and soaking everyone with mindless impartiality. He hated rain, not just for keeping the sunlight from him, but for masking nearby sounds under the relentless impact of millions of droplets. That’s why his first clue was the flashing light on his answering machine.

Beep. _“Ah, Mr. Kent. Erm.”_ That was Alfred, he thought with a frown. Why was he…? _“I’m afraid Mr. Wayne has unexpectedly gone out of town-”_ That didn’t sound good. _“-and I was wondering if, perchance, you’d received…a package.”_ That sounded even worse. _“I know your time is valuable, so I only ask that you return this call if the package has not arrived by seven this evening.”_ Click. Beep.

A glance at his watch showed that it was a quarter past six. Bruce had gone somewhere without informing Alfred? Every nerve in his body shrilled alarm. His briefcase dropped to the floor and he searched the entire apartment before it even toppled over, but there was no Batman. Worried, he stared out into the rain.

…rain. Rain that masked sounds. Sounds, like the heartbeat of someone on his balcony.

Clark threw the balcony door open, not caring that a gust of wind spat chilly rain in his face as he did so, and scanned for – there! Batman, slumped against the wall with all the grace of a dead body propped up to keep it out of the way.

“Bruce,” he called with more volume and urgency than he’d intended, afraid to touch until he knew he wouldn’t cause more harm if there were injuries. But if there were, there wasn’t any blood – or at least, any blood that had been there had washed away in the rain. “Bruce, are you okay?”

“No,” came the response, dark and rusty and somehow hopeless.

He waited, but Batman remained silent. “Can I help?”

The question hung between them, battered by fitful eddies. Batman could have entered his apartment easily, but he chose not to. He could have said “help” – he’d done it before – but he didn’t. Whatever was wrong, Clark didn’t want to make any missteps. Finally…

“Yes.”

It was hardly more than an exhalation, but it was an answer. More than that, it was a surrender, an opening of the gates. Clark reached for Batman, intending to pick him up and carry him inside, but jerked to a stop. What if he was injured? He opened his mouth to ask, but Batman turned his head, met his worried eyes, and nodded once.

Good enough.

Clark picked Batman up as if he were a child to be rescued and hurried inside, bumping the balcony door carefully shut as he did. He was soaked, both of them were soaked. How long had he been out there? Was hypothermia a concern? Better to assume it was; Bruce would hardly come out and announce that he was hypothermic rather than just dismissing it with “I’m fine” or “It’s nothing”. They’d both need to get out of their wet clothes, and Bruce would probably need to be bundled up with blankets for a while. Did he still have that old electric blanket in the linen closet? Probably. Bedroom was chillier than the living room. Better to bundle Bruce up on the couch, or in a chair. With that decided, Clark carried Batman into the living room and laid him on the couch.

“Why didn’t you come inside?” he asked quietly as he began removing the other man’s boots and gloves. He hadn’t meant to, but seeing Batman so…unresponsive…was worrying.

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

There was thick anger in that hoarse murmur, but it wasn’t Clark he was angry at – which made Clark angry. “Yeah, well, next time I’d prefer if you just came in and made yourself at home instead of sitting out in the rain catching your death of cold. I’m worried sick about you, Bruce, but if you deliberately sat out there as some kind of self-punishment, then I’m also angry at you.”

That seemed to startle Batman. At the least, his eyes widened and he looked at Clark in silence for a long minute. For his part, Clark tossed the other glove onto the pile with its mate and the boots and took Bruce’s hand between his. It was ice-cold, worryingly cold.

“You’re hypothermic,” he announced grimly. “I want you out of the suit _and_ the cowl. Can you manage that without help? Good,” he said when the other man nodded warily. “I’m going to change into my pajamas and fetch yours, and some blankets, and then go put water on for cocoa while you get changed.”

He left the room before Bruce could formulate a response.

Three minutes later, with a heartfelt appreciation for flannel PJs and dry underwear, he tossed Bruce’s wadded-up pajamas at him, a pair of warm tube socks tucked into the pocket. Then he flipped the blanket over the couch in a makeshift tent before gathering up sopping pieces of Batsuit and tossing them, along with his own wet clothes, into the shower. He didn’t have a kettle, but a saucepan on the stove worked just fine. As he was throwing out the empty hot cocoa envelope and contemplating a second mug for himself, it occurred to him that he should probably warn someone in case calling out of work became necessary.

He called Lois.

“Hey, Lois, it’s Clark. Listen, I might not make it in to work tomorrow…” Yes, he did have another clean mug. Was there enough water in the pan?

“Oh?” Lois sounded like she had her teeth in a story, and he suspected _he_ was the story.

“Yeah, uh…” Crap, what had Bruce said that second time? “I’ve got a tall knockout over with dark hair and a big chest. We might not be sleeping for a while, but uh…there’s no screaming?”

Silence. “Clark, that was the _worst_ innuendo I’ve ever heard. You want to try that again?”

“…friend from out of town dropped in for a surprise visit?”

“That’s better.” She paused. “This wouldn’t be the same thing that had you distracted the time that faulty LexCorp-WayneTech robot tried to stab itself to death, would it?”

Crap, crap, crap, what was she asking? “Not…exactly?”

“So…mostly the same, but no screaming?”

He didn’t even really know what she was insinuating, but his face felt like it was on fire. “Uh…I guess you could say that.”

Lois hummed in satisfaction, then said sternly, “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend.”

This, he did know. “Good _journalist_ , you mean,” he teased. “A fine, upstanding reporter with ethics too strong to allow you to go straight to the tabloids with this.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Still, a girl can dream. Tell him I said hi.”

The line went dead, and for a moment he just stared at the phone as if it had become a banana and honked his nose. Then the water in the pan began to boil, and he poured it hastily into the two mugs.

Bruce was shivering under the blanket when Clark came in from the kitchen bearing two mugs of hot cocoa doctored with milk to be less tongue-scalding. He put them on the coffee table and scooped his guest up, blanket and all, to set him back down in an upright position. Conscientiously, he tucked the blanket around Bruce’s legs and sock-covered feet before offering him one mug. Bruce hesitantly met his eyes, then flinched away. A hand snaked out from under one edge of the blanket and accepted the mug, where he promptly buried his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as Clark sat down next to him, sipping at his own cocoa. When he didn’t get a response, he sighed. “I’m sorry I’m such a selfish, stubborn jerk. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t deserve any of your kindness.”

“If you really believe that,” Clark said quietly, “then why did you come here?”

Bruce’s hand shook; the other one emerged to steady his mug. “I told Harvey…it takes a strong man to admit when he has a problem. I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t save him. He’s in Arkham now; they can help him, if anyone can.” The mug shook again. “One of my best friends. I don’t know if he’ll ever be the same again, and I feel like it’s my fault.”

Gently, Clark took the mug and put it back on the coffee table. Then he tugged the blanket out to cover both of them and pulled Bruce into a hug. “You came here because you know you need help, even though you feel like you don’t deserve it,” he said in a quiet voice.

Leaning against his shoulder, hands clasped together, Bruce nodded.

“I’m not angry at you,” Clark sighed. “You were stupid to sit out in the rain like that, but you know that was wrong and you won’t do it again because you’re a good friend and you don’t want me to worry.”

He didn’t say anything, but he nodded again, jerkily, and his breath shuddered in and out of his lungs.

“I want to help, Bruce,” he whispered, cheek pressed against the other man’s damp hair. “You’re bleeding. You’re wounded. Tell me what you need.”

Slowly, the clasped hands parted and slid around his waist, and suddenly Clark understood. By protecting Bruce in his times of physical and emotional vulnerability, he’d become something Bruce probably hadn’t had since he was a child: someone who could provide physical comfort and reassurance. Bruce had given himself hypothermia, not just out of a sense of deserving punishment, but because physical injury was the perceived price for that reward.

“I told you that any time you needed help, I’d be there,” he said softly, turning his head to press a slow kiss on one chilled temple. “I never said I’d only help if you were physically hurt.”

A wall came down, somewhere. Bruce exhaled in a long, shuddering sigh that ended with a swallowed whimper and nestled his face against Clark’s neck. His nose was very cold.

“You’re still hypothermic,” Clark told him, gently but firmly. “You need to drink your cocoa and then we’ll go to the bedroom, where I can hold you and make sure you get warmed up.”

It was a matter of control, he realized as he watched Bruce drink the hot chocolate. Batman had to be completely in control to survive; Bruce Wayne had to be completely in control to keep his secret. There hadn’t been anyone he could lay those burdens down with for a very long time. But Clark…he trusted Clark. He knew Clark would keep his secret, watch his back, protect his dignity, and give him the physical comfort he had to be craving. He didn’t have to be the night, the CEO, the strong one everyone else was counting on; he could lay down all his responsibilities and just be a man.

He wondered how long it would have been before Batman had a complete breakdown if he hadn’t been there to trust.

When both mugs were empty, Clark scooped his bundled friend up, carried him to the bedroom, laid him on the bed, and kissed his temple again. “Fetching more blankets,” he murmured, and Bruce nodded.

The electric blanket was still in the linen closet; that went on over the normal blanket and was set to ‘medium’. Then came the quilt he kept more out of nostalgia than need. On top of the pile, the waterproof fleece from the box under the bed – fleece side down, so that the waterproof side could help trap heat. Then Clark crawled under the pile of covers and pulled Batman into a full-body embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered into his chest as the shivering stopped. “I only come to you when I need something.”

“You have a busy life. I’m just glad you _do_ come to me when you need something. I’d rather see you only when you need help than not see you at all.”

He was silent for a minute. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said finally, the words once more dark with self-loathing.

That sparked Clark’s anger again. “So instead of asking, you choose for me.” He pulled away, pushed Bruce away, until he could glare into the other man’s guilt-stricken eyes. “That’s really selfish and arrogant of you, Bruce, and you know it.”

The guilt snapped into anger. “I do,” Batman growled, “but you’re such a damned pushover that if I _did_ ask for something, you’d do it _because_ I asked whether you wanted it for yourself or not.”

“What if I made a decision that involved you and didn’t ask what you wanted?” Clark shot back. “Would that put me on your level? Would you ask what I wanted _then?_ ”

“Maybe,” he snarled, but Clark heard _yes_.

A lunge, a roll, and he was on top of Bruce, pinning him to the bed with the weight of his body, kissing the other man the way Lois had once kissed Superman – boldly, fearlessly, as if this one moment were the only chance he’d ever have and he ought to make the most of it. Although Bruce’s mouth had been open in surprise, it closed and the lips he was kissing remained pressed into a grim line. When it became clear he wasn’t going to return the kiss, Clark stopped to assess whatever damage he might have done to their friendship.

“What that what you wanted,” Batman demanded coldly, “or what you thought I wanted?”

“I don’t know,” he returned evenly. “You haven’t given me a chance to figure either of those out. Was that something you _didn’t_ want, or something you wanted but decided you weren’t going to ask for?”

“Neither,” spat Batman. “Both of those involve me having the luxury of deciding what I _do_ want.”

Clark’s surprise shattered the tension between them. “Really?” he asked, shifting so that he could lie next to Bruce again. “You really deny yourself everything to the point that you don’t _know_ what you want?” That was a stupid question, the set of Bruce’s jaw said. Of course he did. “Bruce…”

“I want my friends to be happy,” he ground out. “What I want for myself doesn’t matter.”

“Then you better figure it out, because what would make _me_ happiest is seeing _you_ happy.”

Bruce looked at him for a long minute, analyzing the honest expression on his face. Then his foreboding look softened into a wry smile. “Well played,” he said softly, a note of admiration in his voice.

“Maybe we should ask Lois,” Clark said lightly as he pulled the other man back into a full-body embrace. “She’s probably got us both figured out. She says hi, by the way.”

That made him laugh quietly.

For a handful of peaceful minutes they lay there, soaking up warmth, and Clark thought this was possibly the most content he’d ever been.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” Bruce said in a voice no louder than a sigh.

“You _should_ be thanking Alfred,” he chided gently. “Once you’re warmed up again, I want you to call home and let him know you’re alright. I don’t care that he knows what you’re like, a little common courtesy and a ‘thank you’ are the _least_ you owe him for today.”

Bruce muttered, “I hate when you’re right.”

“Then stop being wrong,” Clark told him cheerfully.

After a moment, the stiffness of Batman’s indignation dissolved into laughter that bubbled out of him and made Clark’s heart sing. Three times, now. He’d done it three times.

“This,” he said softly, kissing Bruce’s damp, messy hair. “This makes me happy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Wayne Manor,” Alfred said calmly.

Bruce glanced at his host and flinched away from the stern expression on his face. “Alfred, it’s me.”

“Master Bruce! Oh, thank heaven you’re – are you alright?”

“Am I ever?” he asked dryly. “I’m at Clark’s. I’m sorry I left without telling you. Thank you for putting up with me.”

Silence for two beats. “If you’re dying, Master Bruce, I _do_ wish you would just come out and say so.”

Bruce covered half of his face with the hand not holding the phone. “I’m not dying, Alfred. My dignity may never recover, though.”

“Unlikely,” the older man demurred politely.

“Anyway, I may not be back until tomorrow night, and I’m considering maintaining an apartment in Metropolis.”

“Bruce…”

He cringed slightly at Clark’s warning tone. “…maybe not. There’s still a lot of details to be worked out. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I’m going to try to do better.”

Another two beats of silence. “Perhaps, next time, Master Clark could visit _you_ for a change.”

“I think that idea merits discussion,” he agreed. “I’ll bring it up with him tonight.”

“Very good, Master Bruce. Do pass along my regards.”

“I’ll do that, Alfred,” he promised warmly.

“Was that so hard?” Clark asked as he hung up the phone.

Bruce grimaced. “The act? No. Admitting to myself that I’ve been wrong…” He scowled at the fridge. “You heard; he thought I was dying. I take him for granted so much that he thought I was _dying_.” One fist trembled with rage.

“If you don’t like it,” Clark said firmly, “then change it.”

Batman gave him a flat, unfriendly look and got a warm hug for his troubles. It was like embracing a bronze statue, but with all the impersonal neutrality of an enraged tiger. Clark held on, and kept hugging until the hostility and tension drained away with a sigh, leaving the other man in a reluctantly defeated slump. He moved his hands in comforting circles, and finally felt Bruce’s arms hesitantly settle into place around him.

“Not used to being the one hugged rather than the one giving the hugs, hmm?” he asked softly, gently, teasingly.

“Not another word,” was the growled response.

He almost said, _Or what?_ He _wanted_ to say it, to push, to tease, but Bruce had been pushed enough today. “What do you want to do for dinner?” he asked instead.

Bruce pulled back, and Clark let him. “You’re very good at that,” he said with a hint of reluctant admiration.

This time, he had some idea of what Bruce was talking about: his changing the subject rather than pressing a sore spot. He grinned. “I’m not as dumb as I look. Dinner?”

Surprised laughter was his reward.

 

* * *

 

 

“You were very angry,” Clark said, watching as his guest demolished Thai take-out. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”

Bruce made a disgruntled sound. “Gone out on patrol. Found some scum to take my anger out on. Probably felt worse when it was all said and done.”

“That’s…” he frowned. “…not very healthy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Bruce growled.

He thought for a minute. “We need to work something out. It won’t be easy, between my schedule and yours, but you need nights off like this, and you need them a hell of a lot more regularly than you’ve been getting them.” He paused. “And preferably _without_ being injured first.”

The look he got was wry, self-depreciating humor. “Spoilsport.”

Clark couldn’t help grinning. “Come on, Bruce. Don’t try to tell me you _liked_ screaming for three hours straight, because I’m going to have to call your bluff if you do.”

“There were aspects of that experience I didn’t mind,” he said with a straight face. “However, I’ve already started developing a new compound that will provide the accelerated healing without the pain. It’s not that I don’t enjoy our time together,” Bruce deadpanned, “it’s just that your singing is more painful than the healing process.”

He calmly took a drink from his can of grape soda, leaving Clark with his mouth open and struggling with conflicting reactions. On the one hand, Bruce was teasing him, clearly and without a doubt, and that sort of positive interaction made him happy to the point of being giddy. On the other hand, Bruce had been cognizant enough over the agony and muffled screaming to not only be aware that he was trying to sing lullabies, but recognize that he was doing it badly, and undoubtedly heard him cry as well. Clark was certain he hadn’t been this mortified since the fifth grade. After what felt like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, he realized that Bruce was failing to hide amusement, and that tipped it over into giddy.

“Brat,” he muttered, or tried to; he was grinning too broadly for that. He grabbed a napkin, wadded it up, and flicked it at the other man’s smirky little smile. Bruce batted it away, laughing. He wanted to press, to hear from Bruce beyond a shadow of a doubt what he enjoyed about the healing sessions, but he was afraid that if he said a single word, this fragile joy would collapse back into wounded anger. “So,” he said, and his heart faltered as that one word sent Bruce back behind his wall to watch warily for any hint of danger, “why an apartment here?”

Batman eyed him as if watching for a dagger in the back. “Your balcony is easier for you to get to than it is for me,” he said with the air of a man who expects to be challenged.

That wasn’t the only reason. That couldn’t be the only reason, and Clark saw in the narrowing of Batman’s eyes that they both knew there were things he wasn’t saying. “Fair enough,” he said with an easy smile. “I wasn’t planning for company when I picked this place, only for myself and my goal was making it hard for anyone to see me fly in. If you can find one that works equally well for both of us, I’ll go half-and-half on it with you.”

He wanted to argue. Clark had seen that set to Batman’s jaw too many times to misinterpret it now. He was distinctly unhappy, he wanted to argue – but he didn’t. He did, however, growl out, “Have you thought this through?” in a tone that couldn’t decide if it was angry, or a threat, or both.

“I have,” he said evenly. “No matter how we arrange things, it’s going to look like Clark Kent is gay. But Superman has been seen kissing Lois Lane. I don’t have a mask like you do; my secret is more fragile than yours. This will help strengthen it.”

There it was; that _You’re right and I hate it but I can’t argue with it and I hate that, too_ look that he’d only seen a handful of times. But it meant more than that, this time. With the weight of the reason Bruce was here tonight hanging heavy in the air, it meant that Clark was more than just someone he could trust. It meant he was someone Bruce cared about, and he would do things for Clark that he wouldn’t do solely for himself. Batman nodded once, slowly and deliberately and minutely, a gesture that would have been concession on anyone else but that on him was a signal that he’d switched sides. Just like that, the argument was over before it even happened and all the other reasons Clark had prepared weren’t needed.

“Bruce Wayne has too much history to be believably gay,” he said briskly, half of his attention back on dinner now that the confrontation had been averted. “But sneaking away to Metropolis for clandestine meetings that may or may not have anything to do with business – that’s believable. It will look better if no money changes hands directly between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, but how about tending to the apartment in exchange for using Bruce Wayne’s influence to get interviews?”

“Not with you,” Clark half-asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then who’s going to keep Bruce Wayne honest?”

Bruce gave him a cat-in-the-cream smile. “I was thinking Lois Lane.”

“…thereby giving her a reason for visiting. You are a _very_ dangerous man,” he said admiringly.

“Naturally, the apartment will have as much security as I can pack into it – but I’m rich and I have a tarnished history, that’s to be expected of me. That you’ll benefit from it as well is something no one has to know.”

“Lex isn’t going to like it,” Clark pointed out, not wanting to spoil the mood but unable to keep from voicing the warning.

Bruce just smiled. “Good. It ought to keep his attention on me and not on Superman.”

“You know, there’s one thing I’ve never understood about Lex.” At Bruce’s raised eyebrows, he continued, “Why he hasn’t figured out who Superman is. I mean, _you_ knew my secret within twelve hours of arriving in Metropolis.”

It took a few seconds for Bruce to finish his mouthful and swallow. “You’ve heard the saying that when all you have is a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail? You have super-strength, and your first instinct when confronting problems is to use it to solve them. Lex Luthor is rich and powerful. _He_ thinks about problems in terms of money and power.”

Clark frowned. “You’re just as rich and powerful. What makes you different?”

“Luthor is brilliant, but he’s arrogant. He doesn’t admit to himself that someone might be more clever than him, so he sees no point in trying to out-think opponents and because of that, he doesn’t think that anyone could be out-thinking him.” Batman smiled, another expression Clark was all to familiar with – the one that said clearly that the trap had been sprung. “It’s human nature to assume that others are like you. You want to know _why_ I’m such a dangerous man? I’m _always_ assuming someone will try to out-think me, and I plan around that.”

“You’re rich and powerful,” Clark said quietly. “And on top of that, you’re strong and fast and _easily_ as smart as Lex. What keeps _you_ from being arrogant?”

Appetite suddenly gone, Bruce pushed away the container he’d been eating out of and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the pity. “I learned a long time ago that you can be smart, rich, powerful and strong, and it still won’t save you from blind chance, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything I do is on borrowed time. I know I’m going to die one of these days. I won’t be smart enough, strong enough, fast enough, _lucky_ enough, and that will be the end. That’s what keeps me from being like Luthor.”

“Wrong.”

Batman’s eyes snapped open and bored into Clark’s. “ _Wrong?_ ”

“Wrong,” he repeated firmly, not intimidated in the slightest. “Your _friends_ , Bruce. Friends are what keep you from being arrogant, because heaven knows you’re just as bad as Lex, but in a different direction.”

“I’m not-”

Clark interrupted Batman’s hot denial. “Alfred thought you were _dying_. Tell me again why he would think that?”

For several seconds, Batman glared fiercely at him. Then, suddenly, the anger drained out. “I _am_ that bad,” Bruce sighed. “You’re right, damn you.”

“Whether your goal is _using_ others or _helping_ others, thinking only of yourself is still arrogance.” He reached across the table to lay one hand on Bruce’s. “I know trust doesn’t come easy for you, and maybe you’re right and forgiveness comes _too_ easy for me, but as far as I’m concerned that just makes me even _more_ well-suited to be your friend.”

Abruptly, Bruce stood and left the kitchen. Clark let him go, watching through the walls as he went to the balcony door and stood there, both hands on the glass, watching the rain. No doubt he wanted to be leaning against the balcony wall, surrounded by the night, but the stinging of his pride was too raw to allow that kind of selfish disregard for his health after the emotional beating he’d already subjected himself to. Normally, he would be out there, a predator preying on crime, channeling his anger and frustration into something useful – but he was trapped here, trapped by the concern of a man he cared about, however reluctantly. So Clark gave him space, gave him time alone to ball his hands into fists and clench his jaw until it hurt and glare impotent fury into the uncaring rain. And when he finally let his hands fall and leaned his forehead against the cold glass, Clark strode up to stand beside him, one arm around his shoulders.

They stood there in silence for several minutes, staring out at the night.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Bruce asked quietly. “Willingly subject yourself to me on a semi-regular basis? I know I’m not the easiest man to put up with.”

“ _You_ put up with _me_.” He could have made it light, teasing, joking – but he didn’t. “Trust doesn’t come easy for you, but you placed it in me and I’m going to do everything I can to remain worthy of that trust.”

The muscles beneath his arm tensed, but Bruce didn’t try to pull away. Clark counted that as a victory.

“I care about you, Bruce.”

“You care about everyone.” The words were curt, bitter, as if they’d somehow escaped against his will.

Clark’s arm tensed as he resisted the urge to pull Batman into a hug. “I was terrified when I got Alfred’s message,” he said in a soft voice. “Scared beyond words that something had happened to you, that you were dead somewhere. When I saw you out there, I was expecting you to be wounded, maybe dying, and when you weren’t, it was like my heart had been stopped since I heard Alfred say you were missing, and now it could start beating again. I _care_ about you.”

Whatever reaction he might have expected his words to result in, being hugged was _not_ it. More than a little startled, he hugged back as Bruce buried his face in his host’s shoulder, and said nothing out of the fear that he’d say the wrong thing.

“I think I should go home,” Bruce murmured. It wasn’t quite Batman’s voice, but it was a serious, thoughtful tone very at odds with how tightly he was holding Clark. He waited, as if anticipating a protest, and when none came, continued, “I didn’t bring shoes or a change of clothes suitable for looking at potential apartments in. If I return to Wayne Manor tonight, I can drive back up here in the morning and do things properly. How subtle did you want to keep Clark Kent’s potential homosexuality?”

It took him a second to get his mental feet under him. “Are you asking me out?”

“Do you want me to? I was thinking of taking you out to lunch and picking your brain on real estate.”

“I think it’s a bit sudden,” Clark temporized. “But if you showed up, flirted with Lois, and asked _her_ out to lunch, she’d turn you politely but firmly down and foist you off on me instead.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“If I’m at lunch with you, I can’t swoop in and steal any story that breaks while we’re out. Even if Superman has to make an appearance, Clark Kent won’t be able to beat her to the by-line.” Clark smiled wryly. “Also, I’m pretty sure she’d do it just to see us on a date – even if it’s not.”

Bruce laughed and stepped back, releasing the younger man but leaving his hands on Clark’s shoulders. “That settles it, then. I’ll go back to Gotham and-”

“Nope,” Clark said pleasantly. “You’re staying right here until five in the morning, and _then_ you can go back to Gotham.”

A moment’s struggle was all it took for Batman to realize that Clark wasn’t going to let go without a fight – and a fight over something this stupid wasn’t worth it. “Fine. Five o’clock.”

“You promise?”

He sighed. “I promise.”

Clark let go.

“Now what?” Bruce asked somewhat grumpily.

He hadn’t thought about that. “Well, what do you usually do when you have some time to yourself?”

“On the rare occasions when Batman isn’t needed and Bruce Wayne’s obligations have been met?” His expression hovered between sardonic and resigned. “I sleep.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Clark announced firmly, not even letting himself think about how long Bruce must have been burning his candle at both ends. “I’ll get the lights and set the alarm; you get into bed and save me some room.”

It was a little surprising that he got no argument. Then again, considering how rough the day had been on Bruce, maybe not so surprising after all. He was like one of the feral cats they sometimes got on the farm, growing up. Too hurt to trust, too scared to relax. He smiled at the comparison as he went around the apartment turning out lights, imagining Batman as a half-starved, scarred tomcat, unsure whether to hiss and swipe at the hand scratching behind his ears, or to purr and settle down. When he got to the bedroom, it wasn’t a surprise at all that Bruce was on his side, facing the window. He wondered what expression the other man was hiding while he set his alarm for five and turned out the lights.

The size of the bed necessitated they sleep in close proximity – if not direct contact – but the way Clark saw it, that’s exactly what Bruce had come here for anyway. He didn’t hesitate before snuggling up to the other man, one arm draped casually over him, hugging Batman gently to his chest. There was also no hesitation before he buried his face in Bruce’s thick, dark hair, and again he smiled at the comparison to a feral cat. Slowly, the broad back pressed against his chest relaxed. Neither of them said anything, there in the dark, waiting for sleep that drifted in like the fog. Just before it claimed Clark, he felt Bruce’s hand shift.

When Bruce’s fingers tightened minutely around his, he squeezed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I wasn't expecting Clark to do that, either. 
> 
> The unofficial song for this fic is Acivii's "Fade Into Darkness (Instrumental Radio Mix)".


	6. Planning interlude

It wasn’t until Bruce swanned through the door and the tension that had been knotted across his shoulders evaporated that Clark realized he’d been worried the other man wouldn’t show up. Watching Bruce put on the Batsuit earlier that morning had hurt, almost physically. It was more than donning the costume; he’d watched Bruce wall himself away until there was nothing but the Dark Knight. He hadn’t even said goodbye as he climbed into the hovering Batwing, just looked in Clark’s direction and nodded once, minutely. But now Bruce Wayne, rich playboy, was smiling and laughing with copy boys and file clerks. He hadn’t forgotten. He’d come back.

Clark watched from behind a poker face as Bruce sidled up behind Lois, so intent on her story that she didn’t notice until she hit _enter_ and leaned back in satisfaction and there he was, perched on the edge of her desk as smug as you please.

“Bruce! What a pleasant surprise!”

Did she have to sound so _happy_ to see him?

“What brings you to our fair city this time?”

“Your smile, of course,” he fairly purred. “Think I could steal you away for lunch?”

She glanced over at Clark, professional competitiveness written all over her face. “You’re up to something,” she told Bruce dryly. “I decline to answer until I find out what it is.”

He laughed, but it was the fake rich-boy laugh. “You got me! I _really_ came hoping to pick your brain.”

Lois looked intrigued and flattered. “ _Really_. On what subject?”

“I’m thinking of establishing a residence in Metropolis,” he confessed cheerfully. “I thought I might see if I could get your expert insider’s opinion.”

She thought about that for half a minute before smiling sharply. “And let Kent grab whatever juicy story breaks in the next two hours?”

Here it comes, Clark thought, swallowing his smile.

“If you want my _expert insider’s opinion,_ ” Lois threw the words down like a challenge, “then the price of my information is lunch for myself _and_ for Smallville over there. If I’m going to be out of the office, then he’s coming with me so I can keep an eye on him. _And_ I want to pick where we eat.”

Bruce had to be just as surprised as Clark was, but he just grinned. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Lane. It’s a deal. That is…if Mr. Kent will consent to join us.”

And now that lady-killer smile was aimed at him, and Clark remembered that Batman _cared_ , and he simultaneously wondered how much of the charm being poured on was a genuine offer, and if he wanted to accept if it was. His face felt hot as he stammered acceptance, the question of what he wanted and what Bruce might want distracting him enough that he followed the other two in a haze that didn’t clear until they were seated in a small, intimate booth with a menu in his hands and Lois’s voice calling his name repeatedly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked, turning to look at her instead of at Bruce’s amused expression across the table from them.

“Geez, Smallville, get it together. I asked if you wanted to split an appetizer.”

“Uh, sure.”

That bought him time to glance at the menu and pick an entrée almost at random, and then the waiter was gone to deliver their order.

“Alright,” Lois said in the voice she used to ask the hard questions, “why are you thinking of getting a place here?”

“I anticipate having to drop in on a more regular basis,” Bruce answered easily. “It would make things much more convenient if I didn’t have to worry about hotel rooms and packing.”

Lois nodded, no doubt anticipating the look on Lex’s face. Then she asked, “And what’s the _real_ reason?” Bruce just blinked, as guileless as anyone could ask, and she turned to Clark expectantly. “Come on, Clark. What’s the _real_ reason?”

Face hot again at all the implications she wasn’t insinuating, he protested, “That _is_ the real reason.”

“Mm-hmm. That may be the real reason,” she said, skepticism dripping from every word, “but there’s a reason _behind_ that real reason, and I want to know what it is.”

Luckily for both men, the waiter arrived with their drinks. That wouldn’t distract her long, though, and they knew it.

Bruce threw him a dry grin. “How subtle did you want to keep this, again?”

“I think we should keep it as quiet as possible,” he answered with admirable calm, despite how red his face had to be. “Rumors will spring up on their own.”

Lois looked like she was ready to climb a wall to get at the story she was being denied. “One of you’s going to talk,” she threatened, brandishing her fork at each of them in turn.

“Obviously,” Bruce said in his rich-boy voice as the waiter set down an order of – what exactly had he agreed to split with Lois? – and some plates, “I won’t be living there more than two or three days out of every month. I’ll need someone to manage the place for me – make sure nothing breaks, keep food in the fridge, maybe pick up the dry-cleaning. That sort of thing.”

“I nominate Clark,” she said instantly, making him choke on his water.

“Why me?” he said when his lungs were clear enough to form words.

She smiled at him, the one she saved for having trapped someone.

“Uh…question withdrawn.”

“It’s related to that thing we don’t discuss,” Bruce said casually.

This time, Lois choked on her – really, what had they ordered? Some kind of vegetables on bread of some sort was all he could identify.

“You can imagine my life is pretty stressful,” he continued, helping himself to whatever-it-was. “It’s been pointed out to me that I should get away from things now and then, and I thought having my own place here in Metropolis would be convenient for business _and_ leisure.”

From the look on her face, Clark wasn’t the only one expecting him to have said ‘pleasure’.

“Leisure,” Lois repeated, all but making air quotes around the word, eyebrows skeptically high.

Bruce smiled disarmingly. “I don’t relax enough, and particularly not in the company of good friends.”

“Friends, plural?” She looked like she was trying very hard not to leap to any conclusions. “Are you including me in that category?”

“Open invitation,” he agreed cheerfully.

Clark buried his gaze in his water glass, certain his face was beet-red and hoping with at least three-fourths of his mind that he was misinterpreting Bruce’s offer.

The silence stretched.

“Bruce, I think we’re going to need to talk about this somewhere private before Smallville has an aneurysm, and I’d like some clarification as well.”

“Fair enough. But now that you know roughly what I’m looking for…where do you suggest I look?”

 

* * *

 

 

Evening saw them at Clark’s apartment, clustered around his laptop. The Pizza Palace delivery boy had remembered his address and beaten two others out, hoping for another tip as generous as the last time. He hadn’t been disappointed, but Clark figured a pizza delivery guy needed one of Bruce’s hundred-dollar bills more than he did. To Clark’s left, Lois Lane nibbled on veggie delight pizza, all her attention on the screen. To his right, Bruce was somehow managing to demolish an entire large curry chicken pizza without either looking up from the laptop or spilling anything. He was pretty sure Pizza Palace didn’t even _have_ a curry chicken pizza, and that they’d improvised one just for him on the strength of having tipped forty dollars on a sixty-dollar order the last time he’d called. The potential apartments they’d made a list of were being checked for heaven-only-knew-what; Bruce seemed to be looking for something different with each one. When he got to the end, he sat back with a noncommittal grunt and turned the rest of his attention to his dinner.

“Well,” Lois said dryly, “this is a side of you I’ve never seen before.”

Bruce glanced at her. “Oh?”

“You’re packing that away like you haven’t eaten for a week. Aren’t you going to make yourself sick?”

“Nope.”

She let that go with a shrug. “Okay, so _now_ are you going to tell me the real reason you want your own place in our fair city?”

Clark knew that body language; that was as clear a ‘no’ as Batman ever gave without saying the word. “I’m emotionally blackmailing him,” he said into the silence.

Oh, that was a glare. Batman declined to say anything, though, and Lois looked shocked.

“On three occasions,” he ventured bravely on, “I’ve assisted Batman as he recovered from severely traumatic injury, and it became clear to me that aside from my apartment not being the most convenient place for that, his support system is somewhat lacking.”

Bitter laughter from Bruce, quickly cut off.

Lois turned to kneel on the couch, facing Bruce across Clark. “Were you ever serious about me?” she asked sharply. “Or was it just an attempt to distract the reporter most likely to uncover your secret?”

Clark turned to look at his other guest. _This_ was an answer he was deeply interested in.

“You’re a remarkable woman,” Batman said reluctantly. “You deserve better than an arrogant rich kid with issues and a martyr complex badly medicated with violence and risky behavior.”

“Bruce…”

He flinched at Clark’s stern tone. “ _I think_ you deserve better than me,” he corrected himself sullenly, each word forced out as though against his will. “You _deserve_ the opportunity to make the choice in full knowledge of everything you’d be getting into, and left to my own devices I’d push you at Clark and watch from a distance, satisfied as long as you’re happy, with little or no regard for what I may or may not want for myself.”

While Lois gaped, Clark reached out and took Bruce’s fist in his hand, gently conveying reassurance and approval through touch. “That means he cares about you,” he said gently.

Glaring, Bruce shoved the rest of a slice of pizza into his mouth so that he couldn’t say anything.

“It’s true, then,” Lois said somewhat hollowly. “You’re Batman. And Clark, you’re _emotionally blackmailing_ him?”

Batman’s seething resentment bored into him, but the fist beneath his hand didn’t move. “He cares about me, too,” Clark said gamely. “He can’t exactly see a psychiatrist, so a friend whose opinion he trusts is the closest he can really get to professional help. Getting an apartment in Metropolis was his idea; moving in was mine.”

“Are you two…” she let the question trail off.

Clark glanced to his right, but Bruce was still chewing. He did, however, stop glaring long enough to look smug. “We don’t know,” he sighed. “He doesn’t give himself the luxury of figuring out what he wants, and only in the last twenty-four hours did I figure out that he trusts me enough to come to me for help with issues that _aren’t_ medical emergencies. Even if it’s like pulling teeth to get him to admit anything,” he added, teasing.

Bruce just grimaced and reached for another slice.

For a long minute, Lois knelt on the couch, watching in silence and thinking. Finally, in her usual dry tones, she asked, “Does he always eat like that when he’s not in public?”

A muffled sound that might have been choking or laughter – or both – came from the other man, and Clark grinned. “I was thinking of entering him in a pie-eating contest.”

“Dibs on the by-line,” she said immediately. “So, in the restaurant, when he asked how subtle you wanted to keep things…I assume he meant the inevitable rumors that you’re gay.”

“His idea,” Bruce growled before shoving more pizza into his mouth.

“My idea,” he repeated. “I thought it would be a good way to keep Clark Kent and Superman separate in the public eye. I’ll also be ceding all stories regarding Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises to you.”

She approved; it was all over her face. “Thus giving me a legitimate reason for being in this hypothetical future apartment that has nothing to do with Clark Kent. Clever.”

“And in the meantime, if Bruce needs to get away from Gotham for a night and lay down his responsibilities, he can do it without Batman having to sneak into or out of my apartment, or worrying about not being able to leave without the cover of darkness.”

Lois had that speculative look on her face again, and Clark braced himself. Bruce, finishing the last piece of his pizza, didn’t catch it. “Tell me you didn’t make him sleep on the couch, Smallville.”

That was his face on fire again, and he was pretty sure that was sniggering coming from the right.

“I take it back,” she said gleefully. “Don’t say a word. I don’t want you to ruin this lovely mental image.”

Bruce swallowed. “I’ll need at least a king-sized bed for whichever apartment I choose,” he said, and Clark covered his face preemptively with both hands. “Clark’s bed isn’t really big enough for both of us.”

“Much less the three of us?”

…he was very, very glad his face was already covered, because that silence was _damningly_ speculative.

“That’s his choice to make,” Bruce said firmly.

“I think we’re scandalizing his wholesome Smallville values.”

“Too bad.” He could almost hear Bruce’s grin. “He should have thought about that before he kissed me.”

That’s it, he was never coming out from behind his hands. He’d spend the rest of his life sitting here, covering his face and not looking at whatever expressions Lois and Bruce were making.

“Whoa, hold up, Bruce. You can’t just drop something like that on me without giving me the details.”

“But the details will ruin your mental image,” he protested with blatantly false innocence, and while Clark was glad he was out of his burning resentment and feeling good enough to banter, he wished it wasn’t at his expense.

“I don’t care. Give ‘em anyway.”

“He was angry at me for being arrogant and making decisions that involved him without asking for his input.”

“Decisions like…” Lois sounded like she wanted to be taking notes.

“Like giving myself hypothermia to excuse my need for physical comfort. I…” Bruce trailed off, and when he continued, it was in a gentler voice. “I called him a pushover. Said that if I just asked for something, he’d do it because I asked whether or not it was what he wanted. To make his point about asking rather than assuming, he kissed me.” He sighed. “You don’t know me, Lois. I…don’t let people get close to me. I’m too afraid that bad things will happen to anyone who does.”

“Harvey Dent,” she said calmly, and there was a pause where he assumed Bruce was nodding. “So Clark snuck past your defenses, and you don’t know what to do with someone who actually _knows_ how much he means to you, but you’re terrified of chasing him away. _That’s_ how he’s emotionally blackmailing you.”

“That about sums it up,” he replied darkly.

Clark let his hands fall cautiously, and discovered the other two staring grimly at each other.

“And the reason you mysteriously forgot to call would be…”

Bruce grimaced. “It’s two reasons. First, I do that to all the girls. That’s part of why I’ve got a dubious reputation. Second…I was being arrogant and making decisions involving you without asking for your input.”

“Clark was right,” she said, arms crossed. “No shrink in the world would ever be able to get past your defenses, but you need help before you self-destruct. Count me in.”

 

* * *

 

 

At home, at night, in the Batcave, he sat and digitally skulked through Metropolis. Building after building was brought up, blueprints examined, financial records sifted through. One by one, they were discarded. Then his gloved fingers stilled on the keys, and an incomplete wireframe spun lazily on the screen. Yes…yes. This one would do. Financial trouble, ownership issues, it could easily turn into a dead weight on someone’s blotter. He’d go through shell companies and foreign parent companies to purchase the whole building, a convoluted trail muddied long before it came to rest in Gotham. He had three weeks before the next night he’d agreed to spend in Metropolis, more than enough time to get the gears turning. Then he could drive back for a visit, cart some poor real estate agent halfway across the city, be picky and demanding and vague and apologetic enough to drive him or her to frustrated tears, and then finally decide on this one and ask innocently if the owner would allow him to make renovations. The inevitable news leak that Bruce Wayne was establishing a residence there would attract more than enough tenants to make the place profitable.

If he claimed the whole top floor, there’d be more than enough room for everything. The second, unfinished penthouse that took up the western half would become a miniature Batcave under the pretense of having his own helicopter hangar, and he’d actually use it for that. He did have his license, after all. He could add a gym there, in what would have been the master bedroom, and take advantage of the plumbing already in place. The heavy kitchen circuit would suffice for the kind of computers and machinery he’d be bringing in, and a few misleading pieces of equipment would make it seem like he had a high-tech entertainment center for his…questionable leisure activities. The mostly-finished penthouse, of course, had more than enough room for Clark to live comfortably in the second bedroom. Or the third, more modest one, if he preferred. It would be expected of Bruce Wayne to claim the opulent master bedroom, of course. But the other two were hardly shoeboxes and whichever Clark chose, the one remaining would make a lavish guest room.

The private elevator leading from the lobby to the penthouse would normally be a security concern, but with the plan specifying two penthouses there was a convenient little hall already built in. It wouldn’t take much to reinforce those walls, and in Metropolis, reinforced walls would hardly raise an eyebrow. Biometric scanners might, but that’s where his own reputation would come in handy. Naturally, Mr. Wayne had to have all the newest toys for himself. If they made it easier for him to slip into his little hideaway while at less than full faculties, well, no one would be so crude as to say that directly. The other security measures would be added surreptitiously. As for Superman being able to enter and leave discreetly, Lex’s obsession with large windows more than took care of that. Alter a few to open out from the bottom, European-style, or install a biometric scanner on them, or on the skylight. There was a patio attached to the living room with a functional door, and one for the east-facing third bedroom. Plenty of options.

He’d have to get Clark’s okay on the place, of course, but he was finding that idea less… _restrictive_ …than he’d expected to. He typed up a brief email to Lois, included the building’s address, and sent it off. She’d relay it to Clark, who’d check it out and give it a yea or nay via ambiguous phone call. He’d have his answer within seventy-two hours, and then he could start the wheels turning. By the end of the month, construction would likely have begun on his Metropolis residence.

Feeling remarkably satisfied with the night’s work, and strangely optimistic besides, Batman stood up from the computer and left the cave. Maybe tonight he’d go to bed _early_ for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pizza Palace does not, in fact, have a curry chicken pizza - but they have an employee who knows culinary improvisation and how to (if you'll pardon the expression) curry favor with a heavy tipper.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, Lois ships SuperBat both by itself and with her as an OT3. XD
> 
> Suggested preparation for the next chapter: watch the B:TAS episode 'Beware the Gray Ghost' with the snack of your choice.


	7. The fifth time was planned

The fifth time was planned.

It was odd how nervous he felt as he checked the time and double-checked his preparations. Still, this would be the first time Batman came to spend the night without an injury, self-inflicted or otherwise, to explain his presence. The first time Bruce surrendered to Clark’s experience in taking an evening off and enjoying himself. So, really, it was just natural that he’d be nervous because Bruce was trusting him a _lot_ , and he didn’t want to mess anything up.

To that end, he’d rented nearly a dozen DVDs.

Some of them were adult movies – classics and cheesy horror. Some were for kids, since he figured Bruce probably hadn’t seen any of them in a couple decades, although he’d tried to steer away from anything that involved absent or dead parents. And then there was the one he considered his ace in the hole: The Gray Ghost, Season 1, Volume 1. The entire show had been considered lost for a quarter of a century, and then suddenly the actor who’d played the main character had revealed his copies of the episodes. Now he was living in the lap of luxury thanks to DVD sales and a resurgence of the show’s former popularity. Clark hid that one at the bottom of the pile on the coffee table.

The microwave popcorn was in the microwave, ready to go. Water was simmering for hot cocoa, mugs all prepped and whipped cream in the fridge next to the root beer and chocolate syrup and milk. Vanilla ice cream sat in the freezer next to heavy glass tumblers. Bowls with spoons sat on the counter next to a shaker of rainbow sprinkles. The oven was pre-heated and a tray of ready-to-bake chocolate chip cookies sat on top of it. All the classics. Whatever kind of comfort food Bruce preferred while watching movies, he was ready to provide.

Of course, if he preferred real food, Clark had several take-out menus spread across the kitchen table and a hundred dollars of Bruce Wayne’s “consulting fee” by the phone. He didn’t doubt for a moment that snacks wouldn’t cut it; watching Bruce eat was a bewildering reminder of how much _he’d_ have to eat if he didn’t mostly subsist on sunlight.

The quilt was folded and draped across one arm of the couch. On the other arm, the waterproof fleece. Bruce’s pajamas were laid out on the bed, and he was already wearing his. The curtains were all drawn, the balcony door unlocked. Everything was ready for Bruce…who was due any second. Assuming he kept his word and arrived on schedule. It had been like pulling teeth to get him to agree to this in the first place, even with Lois there to back him up on the importance of taking a night off _before_ he needed it. But he hadn’t gotten a call from Alfred indicating that anything had come up, so there was no reason to think he wouldn’t be here. Not that _that_ kept him from worrying. He was checking the time again and wondering if it would be out of place to call Wayne Manor when the curtains rustled almost imperceptibly and suddenly, Batman was glaring at him from halfway across the living room.

“I still don’t think this is necessary,” he growled, cape covering him from neck to floor, the surest sign of displeasure. “Penguin just went back to Arkham, and something like that always makes the scum of Gotham nervous enough to lay low for a while. Progress on the construction is going smoothly. Wayne Enterprises duties have been light, but there are half a dozen other things demanding my attention right now and I don’t need to waste time pandering to the notion that my _inner child_ needs hugs.”

Anyone else would think Batman was truly upset. That he genuinely thought this was a waste of time. But anyone else would be wrong, because they’d never seen Batman give himself hypothermia to rationalize his need for simple human contact. Calmly, Clark stepped forward and slid his arms beneath the cape, hugging the rigid and seemingly hostile Dark Knight.

“I get that you don’t think you _need_ to be here,” he said, head on the other man’s shoulder. “But do you _want_ to be here?”

For a long moment, Batman just trembled slightly. It could have been rage, it could have been any emotion held in check so strongly that his muscles protested. Then he relented, the tension flowing out all at once, his cowled head on Clark’s shoulder, his gloved hands spread across Clark’s back as he returned the embrace. “Yes,” he whispered.

Clark hugged tighter, recognizing what it had cost Bruce to say that, reassuring him that it was okay. “I’ve got your PJs laid out on the bed all ready for you,” he said gently. “I can make popcorn, hot cocoa, root beer floats, ice cream sundaes, and chocolate chip cookies. There’s also take-out menus on the table if you want something else. What would you like to snack on while we watch movies?”

“You choose,” Bruce murmured. “I trust your judgment. I’ll probably eat all of it by the time we go to sleep.” That was mild apology; he didn’t want to intrude. Old habits die hard.

“We’ll start with cookies and cocoa, then.” Clark raised his head and kissed one cowled temple before releasing his guest. “Go change, and then you can pick out a movie while they bake.”

Batman nodded once, so seriously that Clark half expected him to leap over the wall instead of going up the stairs – but no, he stalked off silently and gracefully, leaving his host to smile and put the cookies in the oven.

When he emerged from the kitchen bearing two mugs of hot cocoa with whipped cream, Bruce was standing by the coffee table holding the stack of DVDs and discarding them one by one. Then he got to The Gray Ghost, and Clark thought he was going to cry.

“Bruce?”

“I used to watch this with my father,” he said, and his voice actually shook.

Clark felt like the biggest heel in the galaxy. “I’m sorry, Bruce, I didn’t know. We don’t have to-”

“We’re watching this.”

The words were hard, indisputable, and he blinked as Bruce opened the case, jaw clenched in determination. “Okay. Whatever you like.”

The DVD player sprang to life, dramatic brass fanfares backed by strings demanding attention as the menu appeared and a classic narrator announced the Gray Ghost, a ‘silent crusader’ who carried ‘the torch of justice’. Suddenly, Clark understood the other pressure that had led to Batman, and he thought _he_ was going to cry. Bruce looked…happy. It was almost surreal. He wondered what Bruce had looked like as a child, if he’d sat on the couch or sprawled on the floor. If he’d worn that same expression, enraptured by the detective-crimefighter in the flowing cape. He wondered if Thomas Wayne had smiled at young Bruce’s enthusiasm, if Martha Wayne had watched from the doorway with tolerant amusement. He wondered if Bruce’s hero-worship would have faded if the Waynes had lived.

“The Gray Ghost was my hero,” Bruce murmured proudly, DVD case still clutched in his hands, admiration shining from his face as the opening sequence looped and played again. “It’s because of me that Simon Trent licensed his copies of the show for release.”

That was an opportunity, and Clark wasn’t going to waste it. He handed over one of the mugs and took the plastic case, placing it on the coffee table. “Yeah? Come into the kitchen and tell me about it; the cookies will be done in a few minutes.”

He followed like an overgrown duckling, both hands wrapped around his mug, and sat at the table while Clark checked the timer. “A toy collector got the idea to use the plot from the Mad Bomber episode to terrorize Gotham. I tracked Mr. Trent down as Batman and convinced him to help me solve the crime.” Cautiously, he sipped at the edge of his mug, slurping up the melted foam. “He was my hero, and I gave him hope. It’s not often that Batman can do that. But not just him – because of me, because of what we did, a piece of my childhood has been saved from obscurity. An entire generation can watch and enjoy _The Gray Ghost,_ and I have some _happy_ memories to relive for a change.”

Clark was grateful that the timer went off just then, because the matter-of-fact way Bruce had said that _hurt_. By the time he’d transferred the piping-hot cookies to a plate, he had his expression under control and could look at the other man without being afraid he’d ruin the mood with pity or tears. Bruce was happy, and that was too rare and precious a thing to risk spoiling.

“I never watched it, myself,” he said lightly. “Pa didn’t hold much with television when I was young.”

Bruce’s face lit up. “You mean I get to introduce you to my favorite television show, my hero, and the reason I became Batman rather than channeling my grief and rage into something even _less_ productive and healthy?”

It would take a stronger man than Superman to not smile back. Clark didn’t even try. “Yup. Want any milk to go with these cookies before we settle in to watch?”

“I’m good with the cocoa.” He stood up, staring thoughtfully into his mug, then looked up at Clark. “Thank you for doing this. It really means a lot to me.”

He couldn’t hug with a plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other, but he could and did lean in to kiss Bruce on the temple. “Thank you for letting me.”

Ma Kent’s quilt tucked around them, they sat close enough to touch and ate hot chocolate chip cookies while watching _Have A Heart_ and _Red Ghost Run._ A brief pause while Clark scooped ice cream into tall glasses of root beer, and they sipped through _The Claw_ and _Take A Hike_. Popcorn and more root beer for _One On One_ and _Dr. Death_ , and then the rest of the ice cream went into bowls to be slathered in chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles. The look of sheer, childlike delight on Bruce’s face when he saw the sundaes warmed Clark more than the quilt did while they watched _Jimmy’s Homecoming_ and _The Doll Maker_.

“I’m going to eat all your food at this rate,” Bruce murmured as the ending credits played.

Clark kissed his hair – easy to do, as he was nestled rather comfortably against the Man of Steel, and showing no inclination to move or even object to the arm around his shoulders. “I can order some. What would you like?”

“Something with grease and salt to balance out all the sugar.”

A comment leaped to mind, but Clark swallowed it. “I’m going to have to stand up, you know. To fetch the menus, at the minimum.”

Bruce groaned reluctantly as he sat up and freed himself from the quilt. “You’ve waited on me enough tonight.”

“And I’ll keep doing it,” he protested as they both stood. “You spend your days _and_ nights doing things for other people. You deserve a night where you don’t have to do anything for anyone but yourself.”

He looked ready to argue for a moment, but it subsided.

“Come on,” Clark said, sliding one arm around Bruce’s waist and draping his over his shoulders. “Let’s go look at the menus.”

It was less awkward than he’d expected, walking hip to hip with Bruce. They separated in the kitchen, Clark going for the hundred-dollar bill he’d set by the phone while Bruce glanced over the choices and made thoughtful noises.

“This one,” he said decisively, and Clark dialed while he stared intently at the appetizer section.

“Hi, yes,” he said when Pizza Palace picked up. “Do you deliver appetizers and sides, or just pizza?”

 _“Just pizza,”_ came the apologetic voice on the other end. _“Wait, your number – is this Clark Kent?”_

He blinked. “Yes, this is Clark Kent.”

_“For you, Mr. Kent, we deliver anything.”_

“Great!” Was this what it was like to be rich? “I’d like to place an order for…” Eyebrows raised, he looked expectantly at Bruce, who pointed to items one by one. “…an order of cheese fries, three orders of chicken tenders, an order of mozzarella sticks, an order of fried mushrooms, and two orders of fried ravioli.”

_“The ravioli and mozza sticks come with marinara sauce, you want anything else for dipping?”_

“Do I want anything else besides marinara sauce for dipping…” he said, and Bruce nodded. “…what are my choices?”

_“We got barbeque sauce, buffalo sauce, herbed butter, honey mustard, and ranch.”_

Clark repeated the choices, watching Bruce for reactions. “Herbed butter and ranch, please.”

_“You got it, Mr. Kent. Give us twenty minutes.”_

“I think they like you,” Clark said after he agreed to the total and hung up.

“Me?” Bruce smiled innocently. “ _You’re_ the heavy tipper.”

“Yeah, but I only order when I’m feeding you,” Clark teased back, prodding the other man’s chest lightly and stopping just short of swooping in for a quick kiss. An electric shock of _What am I doing?_ jolted up his spine. “Uh…have you done any thinking about what you want for yourself?” he asked lamely.

“Don’t rush me,” Batman growled, but there was no anger in it. “Knowing what I want and feeling like I deserve to have it are two _very_ different things.”

It sounded like an invitation, it really did, but Clark knew this evening was already pushing boundaries. Slowly, deliberately, he put his arms around Bruce and pulled him close. This time, it took only a few breaths before he felt the hug being returned, and warm breath on his neck.

They stood like that, drifting in comfortable warmth, until a knock at the door sent them both into startled battle stances. Then they laughed sheepishly at themselves and Clark handed over the hundred-dollar bill in exchange for a stack of styrofoam containers.

“You go get settled,” he ordered cheerfully. “I’ll handle this. What would you like to drink?”

Bruce grinned. “The tears of my enemies. Failing that, I’ll settle for ice water.”

“Brat,” he shot back. “Go sit. I’ll be right there.”

Laughing, Bruce left the kitchen.

For _Gray Ghost Returns,_ Bruce munched happily on cheese fries and mozzarella sticks. By the end of _Missing Link,_ he was back to leaning comfortably against Clark while dunking fried ravioli in the marinara sauce. _The Card Shark_ saw Clark holding a small tub of ranch dressing while Bruce devoured chicken tenders, and during _Spy Smashers_ , Bruce held the butter while Clark dipped fried mushrooms in it and popped them into his guest’s mouth.

When the credits ended and the DVD returned to the main menu, Bruce hit _eject_ on the remote and sighed.

“Something wrong?” Clark asked quietly, cheek nestled against the top of other man’s head.

“Yeah. I have to use your bathroom, but I don’t want to move.”

Clark laughed into Bruce’s hair. “You can always come back.”

“It won’t be the same,” he grumped. “Besides, it’s getting late for you.”

“Bed, then,” Clark said firmly. He didn’t exactly want to move, either – Bruce was a warm, comfortable weight in his arms and against his chest, and a part of him was afraid the walls would go back up as soon as they were out of physical contact. Still, he hugged the other man and then released him, tugging the quilt away and sneaking a kiss onto the back of his neck as they reluctantly sat up.

Bruce stood and stretched, then strode for the bathroom without a backwards glance. Clark sighed and returned the DVD to its case before gathering up the remnants of dinner and snacks and throwing them out or putting them in the dishwasher. By the time he had the lights off and was heading into the bedroom to set the alarm for five, Bruce was already under the blanket. Just as Clark feared, he was facing the window. After a moment, though, the fear faded. Tonight had been a repeated lesson in how Bruce dealt with relaxation and – if he dared think the words – physical intimacy. His pride, or maybe his issues, wouldn’t allow him to boldly take what he wanted. He wouldn’t look Clark in the eye and initiate a hug, for example. But he would allow Clark to make the first move, and he would ease himself backwards into a position of less than unassailable dignity. Turning his back like this wasn’t an attempt to wall himself away; it was simultaneously a concession to his conviction that he didn’t deserve what he wanted, and an invitation to Clark.

The realization that Bruce was saying _yes_ by omission shook him enough that he nearly forgot to set the alarm.

Feeling much more optimistic about things, Clark slid into bed and pulled Bruce back against his chest. That they both sighed as their bodies fit neatly together wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the hand that covered his almost instantly. Contented silence billowed around them, settled like snow on Christmas Eve.

“Clark.”

The word was quiet, more so than a whisper, a subvocalization meant to only attract attention if he wasn’t asleep.

“Mm?”

Tension spread across the muscles that had been relaxed against his. “Are we…?”

Were they?

“Is that what you want?” he murmured into the other man’s ear.

“Not...entirely. Lois…”

Clark felt the same way, and it confused him. Wasn’t love supposed to be just two people? Was something wrong with him that he could lie here with Bruce in his arms and enjoy it, but wish at the same time that the evening they’d just spent together could be replicated with her instead? If she and Bruce spent an evening watching movies and cuddling, feeding each other and sleeping together, would he have a right to feel the jealousy that surged up at that thought? No, he realized. Not jealous. Afraid. He was afraid that any of them would choose one of the others, leaving the third heartbroken and alone, and his arms tightened around Bruce.

“I don’t mind sharing you,” he said slowly, terrified of each word but even more scared of what would happen if he weren’t absolutely clear about this. “I only hope you and she feel the same way.”

“If she doesn’t, I won’t stand in your way.”

“If she doesn’t,” he countered firmly, “she has the right to choose.”

“And if she only chooses one of us?” The words were bitter, old blood flaking from wounds sustained during a lifetime of loss and denial.

Clark threw caution to the wind. “I won’t abandon you,” he promised, lips worrying gently at the shell of Bruce’s ear. “You came to me bleeding. I couldn’t turn you away then, and I won’t turn you away ever. No matter who else…for either of us… _I want this_.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words were clipped, but not angry.

“Alright,” Clark breathed, settling back down with a bit of effort.

Bruce sighed again, tension melting away everywhere but the hand still tight around his. “You’ve got it,” he half-pled quietly. “For as long as you want it, you’ve got it.”

He couldn’t resist a little teasing. “Now who’s the pushover?”

The laughter that was sweeter than sunlight washed gently over him. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight, Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: Yes, Clark lived up to his reputation with Pizza Palace; the order only came to about $50.
> 
> The comment Clark swallowed was not, in fact, dirty. Shame on you. :p It was something along the lines of "I've got all the sugar I need right here".
> 
> Every title of a Gray Ghost episode is accurate and in order according to the one pan shot we got of Simon Trent's original reels. No idea how many episodes there actually are, or how long they are, so I just stuck the first twelve on the fictional DVD and said to hell with it. 
> 
> This chapter is where the title came from. It's also a good stopping point in the story; from here on out I have no idea where things are going to wind up or how long it's going to take to get there. Those of you who are familiar with things that happen in the first season of B:TAS probably have a good guess as to the monkey wrench the plot's about to get hit with. I guess what I'm saying is...if you like where the story went and want things to stay the same, this is the end. If you want to see how everything changed and don't mind waiting, mosey on over to the next work in the series.


End file.
